Going alone...with everyone

As I am getting to be an old lady and no longer want to party the night away, I am retiring from the nightlife blog. Yes, I know, it's incredibly upsetting. But it has been a good ride. For the next semester, Ryan Pfister will be taking the helm, and to give you a little taste of what you're in for, here is his rendition of last weekends antics.

"The Daily Collegian Formal is pretty much the polar opposite of a middle school dance.

Last Friday was this newspaper's formal dance, held at the end of each semester to celebrate being finished and to ensure that some of us leave the office at least once over the past three months.

There are the obvious reasons why it's not like a middle school dance: the presence of alcohol, girls and boys dancing closer than three feet apart (well, in some cases a lot closer than three feet apart) and no one needs to call his or her mom for a ride home afterwards.

But there's also an unusual reason: no one brings dates.

I remember the gossip leading up to that big night in the junior high school multi-purpose room. The angst about trying - and failing - to find a date. The overwhelming coolness of those who had already locked someone in. And the indisputable popularity that came with entering under the disco lights holding hands.

But at the Collegian, it's different. Dates just aren't cool. Going as a couple will get you quite a few weird looks and might just relegate you to the far corner of the dance floor.

I'm not exactly sure why this is. Part of it is the journalistic stereotype that we're all too busy doing our jobs to think about relationships. Another is that a lot of us haven't really invested time meeting people outside the office. We're just a "tight family" down here.

Above all, the biggest no-no is bringing someone from outside the staff. I spoke to one of the "outsiders" this year, a guy dressed in spiffy shoes and a pin-striped suit. Although it looked like he had fun with his date, I'm sure he was a little confused by inside jokes about sources and newspaper design.

The lack of dates doesn't mean we're all celibate and well-behaved. Let's just say there's a few things those Parent Teacher Association chaperones would definitely have broken up if they were there. And there's a reason the formal is generally held a different place each year.

So while it was a little awkward during the end-of-the-night slow dance, not having a date really isn't that bad. There isn't as much match-making excitement before the dance, but the gossip afterwards is definitely a lot more interesting."

Santa, baby

'Tis officially the season, and this weekend reminded me why this time of year is my favorite.

First, the decorations. I am amazed at how detailed and decorative some student houses are. Lights cover every porch pillar, ribbons tie around every door, fake reindeer mate on every lawn. Two balconies in the Diplomat bear a season greeting to passers-by on Beaver Avenue. The top balcony reads "Noel." The bottom reads, "Penis." That's practically right up there with, "Peace on earth and good will towards men."

Secondly, the friends....or at least, making new ones. On Thursday night, my roommates and I sat out on the porch, drinking wine and watching lost freshman try to find the frats. After singing a few verses of "One Jump Ahead," from Aladdin ("Gotta keep/ One jump ahead of the breadline/ One swing ahead of the sword/ I steal only what I can't afford") our across-the-street neighbor came over to introduce himself. We discovered he's a sort of wine connoisseur, makes a living as a musician and has a story for every tattoo on his body. The best one: a hula dancer on his stomach. And yes, he can make it dance.

Thirdly, the music. I spent Sunday at the winter concert for the Penn State Singing Lions. Formally a member of the group, I sat with all the other Singing Lions alumni in the front row and prepared for the onslaught of comments about how "the sequel is never as good as the original."(Musical theater kids can be pretty cut-throat.) Despite any ups and downs the show may have had, when it came to the non-denominational holiday medley, all thoughts of competition disappeared ed. No matter how talented the singer was, the entire audience was immediately transported to Christmases past and immersed in the warm fuzzy feelings that those memories evoke. At one point, I found myself wiping away a tear.

So this holiday season, no matter how you may celebrate, forget the stress and remember the little things that make this the most wonderful time of the year.

Keep it simple

I am the Queen of awkward conversation.

After four years of returning home for holiday breaks, I’ve perfected the art of a plastered smile, a fake laugh and an unnoticeable escape.

As a result, I’ve never held the “how’s college/what’s your major/what are you doing now” conversation for longer than 15 minutes.

Until Wednesday night.

The night before Thanksgiving, anyone who ever graduated from my high school crams into my local bar like sardines and pretends to care about the updated status of everyone else’s lives.

I begrudging attended and thought that, by standing in the corner, my four friends and I would be able to remain hidden while still having a full view of the bar.

I was wrong.

Within seconds I had been targeted.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!!!!!!!!” A blond barbie-doll that I’d known in high school screeched.

She looked exactaly the same as she did when we graduated. Stick thin, bleach blond hair, perfect teeth. And was just as interesting.

“So, do you know how much cheaper it is to get your hair done on The Cape?”
For those who don’t speak snob, The Cape, is Cape Cod — her family has a house there. Of course.

“I totally got this jacket a T.J. Maxx. For like 20 bucks. I mean, how cheap is that?”

Well, I consider any form of clothes shopping a luxury, so…no, that’s not that cheap.
“I totally had a great internship at Johnson and Johnson this summer.”

Newsflash: we live five minutes from J&J headquarters. A lot of people have internships there.

And on and on it went. For 45 minutes! I couldn’t escape. I was stuck.
Long story short, because, trust me, I don’t want to put you through the same torture, I didn’t need to know her whole life story.

After that, the “how’s college/what’s your major/what are you doing now” conversation seemed like music to my ears.

Fly, Turkey

Rather than talk about what I did this weekend, which is really just more of the same, I would like to revel in the fact that Turkey Day is in five days!!!!

To me, Thanksgiving means a number of different things:

1) It means returning to a civilized state — New Jersey, where only the strong survive.
2) It means eating my body weight in turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and my aunt’s famous pepperoni rolls.
3) It means seeing my best friends from home, go to our local bar and reminding ourselves how much cooler college is.
4) It means watching the Macys’s Thanksgiving Day parade, then crossing the Hudson to spend Turkey Day with my gigantic Irish/Italian family in New York, the best city in the world.

And although the cheesy-holiday-song season is most commonly associated with Christmas and Hanukkah, I would like to share a doozie of a Thanksgiving song — one that is just begging to become a household favorite — in an attempt to promote this often overlooked holiday song market.

Please, share this soon-to-be holiday favorite with every small child you know.


“Fly, Turkey”
By Geof Johnson

There’s a man named Farmer Brown,
He’s got the fattest turkey around.
He’s been feeding that turkey well,
To fatten him up for a Thanksgiving meal.
Mrs. Brown said, "Honey dear,
Let’s eat that big bird this year.
Go and fetch your brand new axe,
Take that turkey ‘round the back."

Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.

Mr. Brown said, "I’m with you,
I’d like to eat that turkey too."
Put his hat upon his head,
Walked out to the old tool shed.

Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.

Mr. Brown picked up his axe,
And gave a board a few good whacks.
Ground it sharp on the grinding stone,
Polished it until it shone.

Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.

Mr. Brown looked for the bird,
But not a gobble could be heard.
Where could that old turkey be?
He’s a’hidin’ in a tree!

Fly turkey, fly real fast,
Today is going to be your last.
Flap your wings and get away,
Farmer’s going to eat you today.
Fly turkey, up in a tree,
Where the farmer cannot see.
Fly turkey, don’t make a sound,
Get away from Farmer Brown.

Don't mess with the best, cuz the best don't mess

There are two rules to going on a hayride:

1) Don’t expect actual bales of hay.
2) Bring your own keg.

On Friday night, the nerdy Collegian kids ventured out into the real world and took a hayride to the middle of nowhere. Really nowhere. Like, “I’m going to kill you in the woods with a chainsaw” kind of nowhere.

Now, by hayride, I actually mean a tractor pulling a wooden cart, lined with hay pieces. It took us on a five-minute ride to a campsite where banjo-picking music played over the loudspeakers. The campsite was well set up, with three fire pits, plenty of room to roam and burgers that tasted like a juicy piece of heaven.

However, because of the poor weather lately, the site was double booked, and after about two hours of alone-in-the-woods time, we were forced to share our hidden-haven with a group wearing strange letters. I don’t know who exactly they were — I don’t read greek.

Apparently, they didn’t have the same foresight as we did and only brought a few six-packs. Their eyes turned to slits as they eyed our two kegs; they were like animals circling their prey. Though Penn State normally operates on a “the more, the merrier” policy, all rules are different in the wild.

The battle had begun.

We immediately assumed our battle positions. We were on the defense, backs to the kegs, someone on all sides. The intruders began to circle, eyes darting, searching for an opening, a weakness that would lead them to victory.

They wanted our beer.

Some wandered over to our campfire pretending to look for friends.

“Oh, I was just looking for so-and-so”

Or, “Oh wait, this isn’t my group?”

When that didn’t work, some lashed out with incredibly whitty insults.

“You guys are fat and dorks.”

We retorted by calling a white-shirted girl a “cow” and telling a fur-collared guy he stepped right out of “Growing up Gotti.”

Good one.

But in the end, we prevailed. We left with two kegs, no beer lost, no casualties.

Maybe we are dorks — but we’re dorks with beer.

Oh to be young again....

When I walked through the door of my guy friends’ apartment Friday night, I was intrigued to find, not my friends, as I’d expected, but a bevy of scantily-clad freshman girls — or at least so I’d thought.

I soon found out that only some of them were freshman. The others were seniors — in high school.

They were visiting one of the boys who lived in the apartment. The make-up they’d used to cake their face and the combs they’d used to tease their hair were strewn about the bedrooms. They stood in packs around the living room — two on each end of the beer pong table, a few by the TV, three or four crowding around the jungle juice and a best friend comforting her crying counterpart in the kitchen.

They’d taken over.

This scene, of course, did not phase my guy friends in the least. On the contrary, it was just another step in the process every guy goes through when becoming a “real college guy.” First, they get their own apartment. With this apartment comes a real refrigerator. Now, they have a normal sized fridge to store their beer in. Second, they spend massive amounts of money on a sound/TV system for the living room — which, combined with the homemade beer pong table, will serve as the only decoration in the entire apartment. Then they have parties with lots of younger girls who are impressed with their apartment, beer, stereo and table. One of the male inhabitants of the party was so far along n this process that he attended the party in plaid pajama pants normally reserved for Christmas morning. He’s such a “real college guy” that he doesn’t even have to wear real pants.

My friends and I, the older, more mature seniors in college, spent most of the night around the coffee table, playing sophisticated games like horse race and kings. The younger high school girls continued to gather in clumps, only interacting with us to drunkenly ask if we also thought high school girls were b---hes. Seeing as how some of them were in high school four months ago, I told them I trusted their judgment.

About three hours after my arrival, the older crowd found themselves suddenly alone. Not only was it far past the high schooler’s bed times, but also far past their limit and a few had curled up on the bathroom floor.

Walking home that night, I was more than happy to be four years past that point and going back to a decorated apartment with a fridge filled with real food.

Halloween in Happy Valley is better than a bucket filled with Candy

This weekend made me realize how incredibly lucky I am.

This was my fourth Halloween in State College, a college kid’s Disney World. This was also my last Halloween in State College — and I planned on making it worth it.

I spent Thursday night at “The Rocky Horror Show,” presented by the Thespians. Most shows, I’m required to go because one of the leads is a friend. This time around, every lead character was a friend of mine, but it never once felt like a requirement.

The show was phenomenal and completely broke Thespians out of its normal happy-go-lucky family fun musicals. Instead, with every character clad in scandalous underthings and multiple sex scenes, it was entertainment perfectly fit for a college-aged audience.

Then on top of the stage antics, the show carries with it a certain cult following that encourages audience members to dress up like characters in the show (I have never seen that many combinations of corsets, fishnets and heels — on both males and females). “Rocky” fanatics are also privy to an alternative audience participation script. The most G-rated example: every time the character name Janet was mentioned, the audience yelled “slut.” The correct shout-out for Brad was “asshole.” Why? I’m not really sure. But it was fantastic.

On Friday, Halloween hilarity ensued. After being approached by two incredibly convincing ticket scalpers, I watched The Fonz lose a one-on-one five-cup flip-cup tournament to a gangster. And like any Mafia transaction gone wrong, he paid for the loss by loosing a finger. His thumbs remained duck-taped to his palms for the rest of the night. Dressed as a Girl Scout myself, I met two other scouts (a couple, how cute) who shared their Girl Scout cookies with me. It was a night of costumes, complete with role-playing. Or as one passer-by (dressed as Quailman) put it: “That’s commitment man, freaking commitment.”

Saturday, I teased my hair to the fullest and partied with a “Snakes on a Plane” victim, Jane Smith (of the Mr. And Mrs. variety), a dirty nurse, an 80’s prom queen, a chick magnet (a.k.a., a magnet with chickens stuck to it), Ace Ventura, a “walk of shame,” a dude dressed as a sorority girl and a Jay Bundy look-alike, appropriately accompanied by a cop.

And that’s why I’m lucky. I go to Penn State, where acting like a five year old and dressing like a freak is encouraged. Next October I might have to grow up, but luckily, that’s a whole year away.

It's the simple things in life

This weekend, among bar mingling and games of manimal (the best game in the world, I may have to blog about that one day), I discovered how limited my alcohol pallet is. Though I have been 21 for six months now, I haven’t really matured from the freshman tendency to choose a drink based on price, rather than taste.

For example, I don’t really drink beer, but when I do, it’s usually a Bud or Miller Light. It’s almost always on special, and since it sometimes comes in bottle form, I considered it to be light-years ahead of Natty Light — the underaged drink of choice. I also tend to lean towards Long Island Iced Teas, which are always on special at Café 210, or standard cranberry and vodkas, which are pretty cheap at any location. My tastes are simple.

Friday, as I sat around a table at Bill Pickles Tap Room, I was reminded again how sophomoric my beer tastes are. I’d bought a Coors from the beer bucket at the door, mainly because it was only two dollars and meant I didn’t have to fight my way to the bar. My friend, a self-declared beer snob, had a pitcher of Killian’s (on special for five dollars) — he considered it slumming. He was appalled when I said that, though I’d never had Killian’s, there was no difference between the two beers. It was beer after all. This incited a 20-minute rant about beer's many different colors, tastes, packaging and production methods. Last summer he spent a month in Europe, most of it in Germany. He drank every day of the trip. He now considers himself an authority — well really, the only authority - on the many facets of the beer industry.

Saturday, because I was once again trying to save money, I opted for an apartment party. I was served a concoction most would just call jungle juice. The illustrious party throwers, however, called it Smurf Piss, and all I know is it had some mixture of Diet Mountain Dew, Country Time Lemonade and Vladi (the cheapest vodka in State College). The neon green liquid was stored in two large, Styrofoam coolers and dozens of hands dipped their large red cups in and out all night. Though I saved money by not paying a cover charge or giving tips, the beer snobs of the world would have said I paid the bigger price of forgoing taste.

In my opinion, I never felt more at home.

10 things I hate about Michigan weekend

I had incredibly high hopes for this weekend. Not only had my friends and I been getting pumped up for the Michigan game all season, but I also had alumni and friends from Michigan coming in for the game. I wanted to prove to them how amazing Penn State is. I was ready to start early and stay late. I wanted to make last year’s Ohio State night of debauchery look like a kindergartner’s birthday party.

Unfortunately, the majority of my weekend experience was lackluster at best. Instead of it surpassing the events of last year’s Ohio State weekend, it failed miserably in comparison. If Ohio State was a kindergartner’s birthday party, then Michigan’s weekend was about as exciting as an 80-year-old’s bingo night.

So for all 10 points we scored this weekend, here are 10 reasons why this weekend fell short:

1) The bars were way too crowded. I waited 45-minutes to get into the Cell Block, and that was after cutting about three-quarters of the line. Then once I got in (and paid cover), the people I’d gone there to meet had left. And there was no way I was going to wait in line at another bar and meet up with another group of people.

2) The 45-minute wait also caused me to miss the dollar shot special.

3) The party we went to after the bar was dry by 1 a.m. and had two people passed out on the bathroom floor.

4) Walking from East College Avenue to the 500 block of Fraser, to Burrowes Street prompted my friends to suggest we take a cab—-apparently they don’t walk a lot in Michigan.

5) I got hit on by a sophomore from Michigan who was proud of being the football team’s equipment manager

6) Someone asked me where “Crappy Valley” was.

7) I got lost trying to find a tailgate that was “on some dirt road somewhere.”

8) Apparently if I stand from noon to midnight, I get very, very sore.

9) I had a run in with an ex and his new girlfriend, who has morphed into June Cleaver. Not only was it “wonderful to see me again,” but she also offered beer and burgers as through it was caviar and champagne — at a tailgate

10) We lost--again

There's no place like Home

I love Penn State.

The campus, the town, the games, the people — even the days of endless rain. I love it all.

And nothing makes me realize that more than a weekend at home.

Since school began, I’ve gone out every Friday and Saturday night, determined to make the most of my senior year. But this weekend, the old lady in me emerged, and I headed back to the dirty Jersey for some much needed R&R.

While I spend most of the weekend curled up on the couch in sweatpants, reading or watching movies (The Lakehouse starring Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves was really much better than reviews suggested), I did venture out for one “wild” night on the town — with my parents.

The evening started at the local movie theatre, which is the highlight of suburban nightlife in Central New Jersey. The lobby of the theatre felt like a scene from The Wizard of Oz, everywhere I looked I was surrounded by munchkins. Middle-schoolers ran wild, let loose from their parents’ watchful eye. High schoolers were out on dates and bashfully bought their dates candy and popcorn, hoping food would be the key to their ladies’ hearts.

I snuggled in between my two dates, Mom and Dad, and spent the next two hours watching The Guardian. Basically, Ashton Kutcher and Kevin Costner swam around in some really, really cold water.

Then my parents and I got really crazy and went to Applebee’s for drinks and half-price appetizers (they paid!). My dad ordered Sangria. My mom had a Sam Adams. I forgot my ID at home, so I got a Coke.

And that was my weekend. Boring but relaxing — exactly what it needed it be.

But boy did it make me miss Happy Valley.

Take it easy baby, make it last all night

My roommate tends to live by the mantra, "Anything you can do, I can do better."

Whether it’s playing Scattergories, spiking a volleyball or — in the case of last Thursday night — running a bar, she lets her subtle competitive streak shine through.

It was “alternative rock” night at Bill Pickle’s Tap Room, which involved a lot of R.E.M., Nirvana, Radiohead and other non-danceable music. My roommate, who was in the mood to dance, was told to go to Players when she asked the doorman for a more upbeat song list.

She took this as a challenge.

Her target became the Pickle’s employee who was standing guard at the base of the DJ booth, a.k.a., the raised platform decked out with a computer and Ipod playlist.

The employee, who probably got the guard job because he was just a tad too small to be a bouncer, was instantly smitten by my roommate’s womanly wiles, and she triumphantly returned to our table with news that the DJ would soon be visiting to listen to, and meet, her demands.

However, her knight in shining armor never arrived. The DJ was apparently unable to play my roommate’s song requests.

I began to fear the worst. My roommate is not someone you want to make angry, and now that she’d been turned down twice, you could see the fire rising in her eyes.

I envisioned the scene playing out in my head: a 21-year-old, slightly intoxicated female, charging the DJ booth, throwing the computer off the side and probably hitting the too-skinny Pickle’s employee in the head.

It wouldn’t have been pretty.

Thankfully, before my nightmare could come true, fate stepped in. My roommate’s request, Tom Petty’s “American Girl,” began playing, kicking the “alternative rock” theme to the curb. Whether it was a coincidence, or my roommate’s charm, we may never know.

But as “American Girl” transitioned into “Love Shack,” and the formally stationary, head nodding crowd broke into a full out dance party, my roommate turned to me and said, “See how much better it would be if I owned a bar?”

Who is the man behind the mask?

Sometimes, it’s life’s oddities that put a permanent smile on my face.

On Thursday night, my friends and I sat in the near-empty Sports Cafe, a $3 draft in hand to drown the stress of that week. The laid-back atmosphere we'd been looking forward to was interrupted with a mad-dash to the windows overlooking Burrowes and College.

"There's a chicken and a gorilla outside!"

"What? Really? A real one?"

"Check it out, its a freakin' gorilla!"

"Oh my god, who actually owns costumes like that?"

The exclamations of surprise and glee continued as more and more people smushed their faces against the glass, leaving handprints and grease marks like kids ogling the newest doggy in the window.

A group of college-aged guys who were passing the life-sized chicken and gorilla paused to pal around with their newfound friends. The humans and animals sparred, playfully jabbing each other under the glowing green and yellow Subway sign lights. Had the chicken and gorilla been dressed as two normal college kids, rather than in costume, the two groups may have never met. Much like Superman and Louis Lane, the costume allowed for a deeper relationship to form.

Later that night, as I filed out of the bar onto Beaver Ave, I ran into the chicken and gorilla again, still skipping around State College. This time they were frolicking with a different group of partygoers, giving high-fives, patting people on the back, even giving a few hugs. Every interaction pumped a greater feeling of happiness and glee into the atmosphere.

Who knows who these masked figures were, where they came from, or if they’ll ever show up again. But for at least one night, a chicken and a gorilla made the world, or at least State College, a happier place.

Gameday Saturday: Sex and the city style

Football weekends are out of this world.

It starts with the alumni-filled bars on Friday night, leads into Saturday afternoon tailgates, complete with shotgunning Natty Light and dizzy-bat relays (a game consisting of chugging a beer, spinning 10 times around a bat and then attempting to hit the newly-empty can) and then four hours of non-stop cheering and one 'Hey Baby' sing along later, we head out again that night to either celebrate our win or drown the sorrows of our loss.

That's a lot of obligatory fun.

This weekend, my roomies and I were feeling the pressure of yet another marathon party weekend. After the stress of our school weeks, all we wanted to do was crawl under our covers, watch a movie and relax. But at Penn State, not going out on a football weekend is the equivalent of volunteering for social leperdom.

So we decided to take the events of football Saturday into our own hands. We'd still go out, we'd still tailgate— but we would do it our way. The result? Gameday Saturday: Sex and the City style.

We threw our own tailgate, complete with hoagies, chips, veggies and dip. We bought Miller Light instead of Natty and even had vodka and tonic on supply. We brought chairs for the three of us and blankets in case we got cold. All in all, it was a pretty classy soiree.

Compared to the tailgates next to us, we probably looked pretty lame. While others had crowds of guys and girls, standing on the backs of trucks or crowding around tables of food, our tailgate consisted of the three of us, sitting in our lawn chairs, gabbing and gnashing. Those who did visit were also mostly female, which only added to the slumber party like feel of the afternoon.

Other tailgates had beer pong games. We brought Scattergories.

Other girls ran around in mid-drift jerseys, their jeans covered in "I'm Naughty, Spank Me" stickers. We wore t-shirts and jeans, a hello-kitty blanket draped over our legs.

We didn't go big, but we didn't go home either. We just kicked back with good food and good compay, which is what weekends should be about. And for a team like Youngstown State, it was just the right amount of fun. We'll save the real drunken debauchery for Michigan.

It's like the first day of school...but better!

As a senior, you’d expect I’d been a part of many 21st birthday milestones. But on Thursday night, as I sat toasting a birthday shot to one of my best friends, I realized this was the first time I was going to participate in the whole extravaganza, starting with the pregame and lasting until the 2 a.m. stumble out of the bar. I would be there for her first journey down College Ave to her bar of choice, her first ID flash, her first drink (at a bar, of course). I was watching my little girl grow up.

I first realized my role as the older, wiser friend when she asked me for the low-down on which bar she should make her first. A Thursday night? I mused. My first choice is always Café 210, with its amazing Iced Tea special until midnight. But since we wouldn’t be getting there until specials were over, I tossed in another few options. Lion’s Den is always good on Thursday nights and provides a good combo of outdoor seating and dancing. Or I chose The Phryst for my 21st birthday extravaganza, mainly because they don’t have any restrictions on what the newly-of-age can drink. But she eventually decided on The Saloon, with the goal in mind of downing a Monkey Boy. This amazing creation is essentially a pizza-parlor-type, family sized pitcher filled with any combination of liquid imaginable, guaranteed to knock out even the best of drinkers, let alone my 115 pound newbie.

The rest of the night gets a bit fuzzy, as she and I ended up challenging the Monkey Boy together. I remember a creepy cover band that made a few comments about getting laid that night, an awkward couple that, despite the overpowering music, attempted a first date conversation across a table, and the look of absolute bliss that spread across my friend’s face every time she looked down at the gigantic black X’s drawn across her hands. But at the end of the night, as I dropped her off, crown jilted to the side as she stumbled up the stairs, I felt like a proud mother dropping her kid off on the first day of school. She was a big girl now.

Behind Bars: Inside the Cell Block

Some of my friends have said they are avoiding it like the plague. Others have gotten there early, eager to be first in line for the opening night dollar shots. Me? I was, for the most part, indifferent. But I took advantage of the fact that Ernesto kept many Penn Staters inside and joined the hundreds of other desperate-for-a-new-hangout college kids at the Cell Block, the new kid on College Avenue.

First of all, let me say that I was a huge fan of Crowbar, the Cell Block’s predecessor. A recent addition to the over-21 world, I spent many a night rockin’ out (as hard as a middle-class kid in central Pa. can rock out) at the 18-and-over shows of Virginia Coalition, The Clarks, Matt Nathanson and Steven Kellogg. I didn’t need the bright lights, big-city feel of the Bryce Jordan Center — just a few good friends and a little room to groove — and I had myself a good time.

But, skeptic aside, I joined a few alumni friends to check out the State College bar scene’s new addition. Let me set the scene for you:

It was a dark and stormy night. OK, it really wasn’t. Ernesto’s constant downpour had more or less lightened up, and I was waiting in line with the other brave souls, staring at an entrance that, nameplate aside, looked identical to that of Crowbar. Ten minutes and one $3 cover later, I was standing in the middle of the bar with a severe sense of déjà vu. The bathrooms were a bit cleaner, the walls were painted a deeper red — but in terms of décor, not much else had changed inside the hard-core, industrial-styled walls.

The clientele was a different story.

“Oh my God, it has like three floors!” a blond girl yelled as she and her friend waited for traffic on the steps to move. News flash — Crowbar also had three floors: the bars on the lower and upper level and the live music stage on the middle level. However, at the Cell Block, the second floor — my old laid back groovin’ ground — has been transformed into a horny, modern-day Soul Train. The sounds of the DJ kept the packed dance floor bumping and grinding together as one. Those of my friends who braved the orgy-like conditions of the dance floor found the crowd to be grabby with an increased amount of creep as the night progressed.

But the highlight of my excursion was the continuous stream of young, charismatic sales girls (as I’m sure the job was advertised) who tromped throughout the bar floors wearing next to nothing and carrying test-tube-like shots on a tray. All to the delight of my leering alumni friends.

Maybe I’m not cut out for the nightclub kind of life. Maybe I just wasn’t in the mood to have my personal space continually invaded. But either way, I miss Crowbar. I miss the no-contact-needed camaraderie, the music, the atmosphere. And despite what the slogan says, the Cell Block is a set of bars I’d rather not be behind.