The Jinks jokes about women were straight out of an old joke book. "My father said if you have a choice between an angry woman and a rabid dog, take the dog," Jason Jones Jr. said. "It's already got a fur coat and the license is a lot cheaper." And Rex Greed said, "The only difference between rape and rapture is salesmanship." The sensibility of the Grove recalls an era before the surgeon general's report on smoking, before the death of God and duty, before the advent of cholesterol and Sandra Day O'Connor (whose husband, John, bunks in cs go marketplace Pelicans camp). The mood is reminiscent of high school. There's no end to the pee-pee and penis jokes, suggesting that these men, advanced in so many other ways, were emotionally arrested sometime during adolescence.

The most striking prop in The Low Jinks was a sculpture of a female torso whose breasts and buttocks had both been attached to the front, an improvement that looked vaguely hostile. And all the talk about male fellowship often sounds just like a college freshman's version of No Gurls Allowed, an institutional escape from women, from their demands, aggressions and vapors. At certain times of the year women are allowed to enter the Grove -- but only under "chaperonage," according to a 1980 statement by the club president. Chaperonage for adult women. It's another Bohemian wee-wee word, something you haven't heard since you were 14.

The club's nemesis here is the state of California, which keeps chipping away at the Grove's maleness, lately threatening to take away its liquor license and its tax-exempt status because it discriminates against women. The state has established a beachhead at the Grove's front office, a hundred yards outside the main gate, where, under legal pressure, seven women have been employed. Inside the Grove there is a feeling of mournful inevitability about the day women will join the encampment. Bohemians talk about how much it will muddle things. "It would screw everything up, excuse the pun," said an old-timer sipping a drink by the river. "There'd be a lot more preening and peacocking than there already is," a big gay Bohemian told me. Members have cited their privilege to walk about in "various states of undress." And former California governor Pat Brown has said publicly, many times, that the presence of women would keep Bohemians from enjoying their hallowed freedom to pee.

The peeing is ceaseless and more than a little exhibitionistic. Everyone talks about it. Bohemian reminiscences describe such bizarre initiation rites as escorting new members to the steam market cs go redwood at which one of the founders "did his morning ablutions." The Owl Hoots, which are poster-size cartoons racked up each day near the Camp Fire Circle, are filled with pissing pictures. One featured a spurious design for a commemorative stamp of club member U.S. Postmaster General Anthony Frank relieving himself on a redwood.

"Are you going to show it?" I heard a 50-ish Bohemian, the "captain" of Pow Wow camp, call out one day as young George went to pee off the deck. "Most of it. At least six inches." Came the reply: "Now, don't be modest, George." A screen door creaked on a little house farther up the hill, and a Bohemian named Richard poked his head out, emerging from his siesta. "Do it counterclockwise, Dickie, that's best," the captain called out. "Oh, I've had my hand off it for two minutes now," Richard protested. "There's a lot of wasted time."