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.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
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 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.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
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.
Monday, September 04, 2006
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.
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.
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