Starting in freshman orientation, SFUAD students are told who to contact in case of emergencies and constantly reminded afterward. They are given stickers with security’s contact information and shown where their offices are. After a while, the guards become recognizable and familiar. They offer to walk students back to their dorms after late night classes, jump start cars and even help change tires. Several weeks ago, Rio Finnegan, a film major at SFUAD, got to test just how helpful the security could be, when his wheelchair broke down near Carl’s Jr. “One of the cords that helped operate my chair died on me,” Finnegan explained “Nothing worked. Luckily, I was pretty close to the school.” When none of the passerby responded, he called security. That’s when Michael Valencia and Matt Montoya, both relatively new security guards, drove over and gave Finnegan a ride back to campus on the security vehicle. “If I could have gotten him a new chair I would have,” said Valencia. Thankfully the technical problem was resolved in time. Both him and Montoya not only responded immediately, but also did their best to get Finnegan’s chair back by unlocking the breaks and helping him contact the mechanic. “It was so awesome of them,” said Finnegan. I was grateful to both of those guys. But, being such an independent person, it was also a very humbling experience as well.” Valencia urges other students to call security if they run into any trouble or need help. “We’re here to make sure you feel comfortable, to keep the campus safe.” Finnegan called security and received the assistance he needed. Days later, Valencia and Montoya were glad to see him back out on the quad. Valencia urges other students to call security if they run into...

SFUAD faculty and students suggest names for one of the recent baby goat litters.

Is anything more cute than baby goats? No. Nothing is.

I have been to Zozobra many times in my life, but never as early as 3 pm when, it turns out, the gates officially open. The first most apparent aspect of the field—as people refer to the baseball field in Fort Marcy Park, which hosts the burning of the great big white puppet of gloom—is the abundance of security moving about the place. Already the parking lots around the field are closed off, and men in neon yellow vests that read ‘SECURITY’ across their backs are monitoring the pedestrian entrance between temporary metal barricades blocking vehicles from entering. This entrance is followed by a security corridor between tables, where I am patted down (or prodded with a magic metal detector wand, depending if I end up with the woman on the right or the woman on the left who is checking my bag and my person), which spits me out at another metal fence with a narrow entrance managed by more yellow-vested people scanning tickets electronically. Finally I reach the bridge across an arroyo—another corridor—that will spit me out at… the field. But first I must stop at the bridge’s entrance where yellow-vests will cuff one of my wrists with a lime-green band which will prevent me from being accosted by more security on the inside—this is their signifier that I have entered the event by the correct process of checking and being herded along by yellow-vested security, or, more simply, that I have paid the entry fee. Once I am finally through this series of corridors being overseen by yellow-vests, I expect to be home free—I have arrived at my destination and can relax—but the field, only spotted at this early hour with picnickers and die-hards who will be here from 3pm, when a...