Daniel Park is a journalism senior and Mustang News columnist. The views expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect those of Mustang News editorial.
We at Cal Poly have a problem. A problem so bad it just may be the moral equivalent of allowing the infamous socks and sandals combination to continue. A problem so bad it threatens the very fabric and social structure of this great nation. That problem is … parking.
That’s right — parking. This is about the parking situation on campus.
For those who fail to understand the situation, let me explain.
Last year, we had a parking problem. This problem arose from the fact that there were too many cars and not enough space to park them. I believe that’s called physics. However, last year we had the huge parking lot in front the Christopher Cohan Performing Arts Center (PAC). So large, in fact, I simply referred to it as my penis. Even with that lot, we had enough space so that we could eagerly complain about the horrific conditions we faced without actually doing anything about it.
But that space is gone. Gone like my sexual innocence on a Friday night, alone in my room watching Rachael Ray (any man or woman who can turn a piece of clay into lasagna can have me any day). It’s just gone. And what did our wonderful administration do? They solved all the problems and all the students and faculty are living happily like dancers in a Disney parade, always shaking their ass in the direction of Goofy, that pervert.
Just kidding. No, the administration did what they’re genuinely good at doing — screwing everything up. They closed the huge parking space and converted a bunch of smaller parking lots that are farther away from campus than Germany. Yep, those of you who naively thought parking permits allowed students who lived off-campus to park conveniently near their classes are wrong. Parking permits aren’t for such nonsense like that.
Instead, they’ve become another attempt by the school to squeeze the already cash-strapped students like me for the $300 they’re worth. How do I know? Permit me to answer that question with another question: How the hell does Cal Poly justify $375 per parking permit per year? Are the parking lots paved with the tears and sweat of immigrants searching for the American Dream? Nope. Last time I checked, the spaces were all made of asphalt. Are the roads made with the bodies of dead Smurfs and then painted black? Nope, though that wouldn’t be a bad idea. The lots are typical lots; there’s nothing special about them that would justify the ridiculous price. For $375, I could easily get one good hooker, or 375 really, really bad ones.
But to make an already stressful problem worse, it seems as if nothing significant is currently being done at the closed parking lot. I see a bunch of construction workers just staring at the sky and pointing at birds, with seemingly nothing better to do until they die. Reminds me of Bakersfield. In fact, I swear I heard someone in the porta potty screaming, “Nothing’s happening!” I don’t know whether he was referring to the construction site or the result of a lack of fiber in his diet, but it works in either case. The level of activity at the site is so low that workers make a retirement center look like Coachella.
Perhaps there is a bigger problem than parking on campus — the serious lack of student involvement. There wasn’t a survey or questionnaire asking us for our input or opinion on the matter. There wasn’t a discussion or public dialogue. In fact, Cal Poly may be the only place in this country where democracy and transparency are as useless as a third nipple, though I personally don’t know what to do with the two I already have.
But does the administration care about our parking woes? Not at all. They’re probably home right now counting all the money which should’ve gone to the raises in the CSU faculty’s salaries (yes, I went there). They don’t have to worry about anything because they know they’ll get away with it. They got away with crappy campus food. They got away with charging us $375 for parking permits. And they’ll get away with this, too. But I’ve learned to accept it, just like I’ve learned to accept kale in my salad, whatever the hell that is.