So last Saturday I spoke at UC Berkeley, my alma mater. The city itself is as delightful as ever – a mix of fall leaves, bright sun and tramp feces. And with that combination of serene elements, I can't think of a better starting point for my Gregalogue.

See, when I arrived at Berkeley as a freshman some 25 years ago, the city not only helped to transform my political self, but reinforced a cynicism already brewing inside me concerning the meaning of true rebellion. I was a punk in high school, for sure, and embraced generic left wing dogma – for it impressed teachers and even won extra credit in various classes. As a teenager, it also gave me what I craved: attention, some relevance, and a chance to get lucky with hippie chicks. That last desire was never achieved – because I had attended an all boy high school. But no matter, I practiced on the drama students.

But when I got to Berkeley, I saw what true subversion was - and it wasn't the "subversives" at Berkeley. See, the idea of rebellion means nothing when it's turned into a personal identity. Dying your hair pink, dipping yourself in tattoo ink and getting ten nipple rings – these acts become not markers of rebellion, but markers of conformity. In Berkeley - the real sheep pretended to be rebels, and those who looked like sheep - were the real bad-asses. The engineering major with back acne was far more rebellious than the coffee house commie in her Crass t-shirt.

Berkeley embraced "subversives," and they were often called "eccentrics," which is a nice way of saying they smelled awful. Berkeley celebrated "craziness," even if it was authentic mental illness – and I am fairly certain a great many of the folks they lauded for their nonconformist behavior would die alone, by their own hands, with no one there to tell them how cool their suffering was.

And so in 1983, I realized that a true rebel blends in, embraces discipline, hard work, and clean pants. I joined a fraternity. I cut off my long crazy mop of hair. I started tanning – I am not sure why, but it seemed the opposite of heroin chic. I also took up the banjo, just to keep it real.

If you're starting college now, I suggest you do the same.

And if you disagree with me, then you're probably a racist.