Funky Farming

I never knew sheep could have gumption, but if the Northeast Student Affiliate livestock judges have anything to say about it, having “gumption through the hip” is a good attribute for any self-respecting ewe.

I got myself out of bed at 9 a.m. Saturday and trekked past Beaver Stadium to the Snider Agricultural Arena to see animal science majors compete in livestock judging. (Yes, Penn State has an agricultural arena. Did you expect anything less?) How could I miss a chance to observe first hand what I had previously witnessed only on Napoleon Dynamite?

(I should point out at this point that at first this entry will appear to have nothing to do with nightlife. Don’t worry. I’m getting to it.)

Inside, students were intently examining sheep, pigs, bulls, horses, cows, and buffalo. (The guy next to me looking at the buffalo said “I bet you never practiced judging these at your school.” And I had to admit, I had not.)

Soon after I arrived, the judges began announcing the winners. Horse No. 4 won, as well as bull No. 4. Upon hearing the announcement, bull No. 2 promptly began to defecate. Then came the pigs and the sheep where, despite ewe No. 1 possessing that all important gumption, ewe No. 3 won handily. Finally, cow No. 3 – with a “high quality mammary system” – and buffalo No. 2 won.

(In case you didn’t know, “if you haven’t judged buffalo before, it’s about the same as judging beef.”)

I got a ride back to the center of campus with the University of New Hampshire’s dairy science team. I thought they’d all be too into farming for me to relate to them – and there was a rather long discussion of bull No.2’s testicles – but they were quite adamant that their parties were just as good as Penn State’s.

That night, the group was having a “dance and social” at the hotel they were staying at, and I wanted to see if they were right about their parties, (see? Told you I’d tie this into nightlife.), but none of my friends wanted to drive me to a livestock judging dance. So I settled on funk night at Hookah Lounge instead.

I had never been to the Hookah Lounge or a funk dance before, but something about the flavored smoke in the air or the D.J.’s groovy plaid jacket, made me feel right at home.

But after two hours of dancing with girls from the alternative high school, doing a robot-break-dance vs. move-your-feet-with-your-hands-at-yours-sides dance off with a fellow Collegian staffer, and an enlightening crash course in the beauties of the album World Psychedelic Classics volume 3, it was time for my night of ‘70s glory to come to an end.

And as I walked home, shuffling down the street to the melodic mix of baritone voice and tenor sax in my head, I realized it wasn’t it wasn’t just sheep who could have gumption through the hip.

Wango or Twaltz?

Thon wasn't the only place to dance on Friday night.

Having had my fill of the Thon line dance and the "Green Eggs" band's performance of "I like big butts and I cannot lie" on the Thon stage, I decided to check out what other dancing opportunities there were on campus.

Most fraternities were at Thon and apartment parties were pretty low key. So I crossed my fingers and headed off to LateNight at the HUB.

After a game of "Jumbling Towers," a very disappointing Jenga-clone, and some quality canvas-box coloring time, I discovered there was, in fact, a dance competition going on upstairs: "Night at the Apollo."

Unfortunately, while I was coloring my canvas box, I had missed the dancing part of the show. As I arrived, awards were just beginning. And from the way the crowd was reacting, it looked like I missed a pretty awesome show.

The dance groups "UDT" and "Forensic Science" were up on stage and the crowd was having a cheer-off between the two of them. People were drumming and yelling, and one guy even lifted a chair into the air. But at last, UDT was declared victorious and presented with the candy-cane colored trophy.

It was still early, so I left in search of another dancing opportunity. I heard it was tango night for the ballroom dance club at the White Building, so I headed over.

The group had taken over one of the gyms and decorated it with red lights. Strange French accordion music was playing. And a surprisingly varied group of people were enjoying a very sensuous Argentine tango.

Actually, I had no idea that it was tango at all until I asked one of the group members about it. Everyone was basically hugging and gliding around. I asked, isn't tango supposed to involve dramatic turns and roses in teeth?

No, she said. That's International or American tango. This was Argentine tango.

I asked about the Waltz music in the background. If this was Argentine tango, shouldn't the music be more, uh, Argentinian?

She said you could do Argentine tango to pretty much any song. In fact, she said, you could even combine tango and waltz together.

So that would make it "wango," right?

I don't think she was sure how to respond to that. But she did point out the older man dancing with the woman in fishnet tights. He was apparently a master of the tango-waltz.

And looking at the couple gliding across the floor, I had to agree. Clearly, a wango master.

By this time my companion was having a hard time explaining to potential suitors that she was not well versed in the way of the wango - or "twaltz," as she called it - so we headed out.

I had had my fill of dancing for the night, but my head was buzzing with ideas. Surely, the robot could accommodate a little Latin flair?

Mystifying Movies

Movies don’t make much sense if you miss the first 20 minutes.

Especially if you miss the first hour and 20 minutes and think you only missed twenty minutes.

I had a lot of homework Saturday night, so I decided to stay in and get some homework done before going to see the LateNight movie at the HUB.

And by stay in and get some homework done, I mean nap, eat lots of Chinese food, read, watch a bit of Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life,” debate if girls kiss other girls to just to get guys’ attention and chat on instant messenger.

Around 11:30 p.m. I settled down to start my paper. I had to hurry because the movie was starting at midnight. But after about 20 minutes, I was summoned to MarioKart.

Normally, I’m not one to quit what I’m doing to play video games. And I lack the elite skills required for such new-fangled games as Halo and Super Smash Brothers. But MarioKart is a classic; a game on which hours of exhaustive middle school competition had honed my control-stick-wielding and button-pressing abilities.

So after 30 minutes of intense racing action, in which Yoshi came in a respectable second-place, I had not only made very little homework progress but I was also late for The Departed.

I ran over to the HUB and, after getting briefly distracted by the varmint-shooting video game, found a seat in the back of the theater.

Immediately, Leonardo DiCaprio started having wild sex with a blonde girl. Then a lot of people made cell phone calls. And then a lot of people got killed. (Sorry if I’m giving a way the plot here, but you could probably figure this out from the trailer.)

I left the theater around 1:30 feeling very confused. How could I have missed so much in 20 minutes?

I asked that question to my brunch-companions the next morning.

“We went to see the movie at 11,” one of them said.

11? Didn’t she mean 12?

“No, they changed the show times.”

And it all made sense. My confusion became far more justifiable. And apparently the movie lasted two and a half hours.

So don’t be late to a movie. And if do show up late, at least make sure you know how late you are.

Technical Techno

Wireless network difficulties can make it seriously difficult to get your groove on.

Or so I learned this weekend.

It was Friday night and my reading of The Art of Unix Programming was starting to get pretty juicy. But I promised my friends I would hit up the local "rave party," so around 11 I tore myself away from the chapter on remote procedure calls and headed out.

Now, when I think of a rave, I usually picture a huge, shady warehouse filled with flashing glow sticks, European girls and hallucinogenic drugs. At this party, the latter two were non-existent, and the glow sticks were tiny. Mine didn't even come with the handy attachment to hook it around my wrist.

But at least Napster was doing a decent job pumping out the techno music. That is, until the wireless network went down.

Just as I was finishing up an impassioned accompaniment to J. Lo's Waiting for Tonight and getting psyched for an excellent robot dance to Like a Virgin, Napster shut down, leaving the room in an eerie silence punctuated only by the occasional drunken scream.

Immediately my geek instincts activated and I tried to squeeze my way over the computer. Unfortunately, the self-appointed "DJ girls" and the party's host had already seized control of the keyboard. And try as they might, they couldn't get the network to reactivate.

I considered explaining that it was probably an issue with the Dynamic Host Configuration Protocol, but I didn't think that was going to help much.

Eventually, the girls gave up and switched to iTunes music. The music started playing again, but now that fickle people had to control the selections instead of the almighty Napster radio, it was difficult to stay in one genre for more than half a song.

After 15 minutes of musical argument between '90s pop and '80s rock and roll, I decided it was time to go.

My advice for future party hosts: spend the extra money for an ethernet cable if you can afford it. Nothing beats a physical connection.