Except for the big protests, the ’oozers never appeared in the media’s eye. They weren’t Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, Allen Ginsberg, Cher, Wavy Gravy, or the Grateful Dead. They were simply mud turtles increasingly appearing in hippie garb. They were simply trying to get by.
“Cost anything?” It was Jed, of course.
“Freebie, for certain.”
Nonetheless, the university president’s campaign of irritation wore on. Champ sensed that head resident counselor – the administration’s neighborhood face – was working on something ominous, and if the Joint Venture’s first two editions hadn’t produced quite the effect the ’oozers had desired, at least knowing heads were nodding in their direction.
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