Diversity Grind

"Well, at least there's no eleven-teen-year-olds here," the guy next to me said.

And so my night at the CellBlock began.

With two weeks left until the semester ends I decided to get a little crazy and head out on a Wednesday night. Partly to pay homage to nightlife blog's humble beginnings, and partly because it was hosting an over-18 night, the ex-Crowbar location was my venue of choice for the evening.

Donning a sparkly blue shirt that I swore I was going to wear all the time when I bought it in January, I strutted up to the front door and discovered a discouragingly long line. Fortunately, the friendly bouncer advised me of the far cooler, side entrance.

And that was where I met the eleven-teen-year-old-avoiding-man.

When I inquired as to where he had spotted these wanna-be teenagers, he told me that Players Night Club teen night was their common hangout. Apparently, those young-ins aren't very fun to hang out with. Plus there's the whole felony thing to worry about.

By this point I had reached the front of the line, where the door guard took my $5 and drew red slashed zeros on each of my hands. Once inside, I immediately began looking for the free pizza, which I hoped to make up my $5 cover by eating. Shockingly, it wasn't very good. And the soda bar wasn't looking too appealing either.

I decided to head up to the dance floor, which was easier said than done with the amount of people traffic on the stairs. But once I managed to make it to the second floor, the first thing that hit me was the diversity of the place.

And I'm not talking Penn State poster "Respect Comes Full Circle" smiling faces diversity. There were people of every gender, race, weight, demeanor and sexuality participating in the crazy orgy-like dancing conditions. Heck, I even saw a few astrophysics majors bumping and grinding to the music.

Unfortunately, I had a little trouble dancing in the place. It's not that the music wasn't good. It's just that you can't stick your hands out and do the Macarena or the robot when there's somebody within one inch on all sides of you. I mean, I least thought we were going to get some kind of cake-walk-type thing going when they put on "Walk it out," but no such luck.

Finally I ran into (quite literally) an old acquaintance and her friend. I started to dance with them, but I then I noticed the eleven-teen-year-old-fearing-man wallflowering by the stairs. I felt bad, so I called him over and introduced him. But then he abruptly began dancing with one of the girls and the other one ran away, leaving me once again awkwardly alone in a sea of people.

Luckily, it doesn't take much skill to meet people at the CellBlock. That is, if by meet people you mean run into people, have a little awkward eye contact, maybe dance for a little bit and then get separated by the crowd.

By about 1 a.m. I was getting so hot I wished I had worn my super-ventilated work out shirt instead of my hip, button-down party shirt. I thought I was going to get some relief when the DJ started throwing out towels, but apparently they were reserved for "single ladiesssss" and "gold-diggers" only.

Deciding I really needed to get some form of hydration, I finally decided to work my way out of the pulsating mass. With many determined steps and quite a few "excuse mes" I at last emerged into the fresh State College air.

As I headed home, I concluded that the Cellblock was one prison I definitely would not want to be incarcerated in. But I wouldn't mind going every once in a while for a conjugal visit.

Hip - and hirable

I think it’s about time the title “best dancer evrrr” went on the resume.

I began Friday by “practicing my networking skills” with corporate visitors at the IST Building Future Forum (otherwise known as the how-many-free-corporate-trinkets-can-you-gather-in-three-hours contest).

After returning to my dorm victorious, armed with a hand-sanitizer spray pen, a key chain flashlight, a highlighter with built-in paper flags and a glowing fake ice cube, it was soon time to head off to the Collegian formal.

For those who haven’t been following this blog since its inception, the Collegian formal is the once-a-semester event where all of us newspaper folk leave the office and party it up.

At the winter formal, there’s a little more drama, with a few high-achieving reporters anxious to see who will win the coveted Reporter of the Semester award. But in the spring, all that work-related drama is pushed off to an end of the semester picnic. The formal consists only of what it was meant for: breaking it down.

Breaking it down from 8-11 is not an easy task — but I came prepared. With a few new moves that I picked up from the honors students last week, old standbys like the shopping cart, the fisherman and, of course, the robot, I had enough material to last the night.

When the Collegian’s news adviser stopped by midway through the formal and complimented my moves, my earlier in the day corporate experience sparked a thought in my head: Is this marketable?

Think about it — awesome dancing assures at least some fitness, rudimentary literacy (G…l…a…m…or…ous) and basic social skills. The human resources people call it “work-life balance.”

There’s plenty of geeks in the computer field. But if I can geek out AND groove at the company party, how can I loose? XML, Java, wireless networking, and ‘the robot’ – that works, right?

Party like there's no homework tomorrow

It was Friday night, and Kunkle Lounge was hoppin’.

Kunkle Lounge, the glass-walled enclosure on the edge of Hammond Building, traditionally houses studious engineering students interrupted only by the occasional science lecture.
But Friday night was no ordinary night.

Friday night was the Schreyer Honors College semi-formal — the one night when all the cool people who scored a 1350 or above on the SATs put down their books, dress to the nines, and party down in the engineering building like they don’t have a test on Monday.

This year’s theme was Mardi Gras, but the over-supply of free beads next to the door effectively eliminated any incentive for the honors girls to remove anything other than their glasses.

The sign on the way into the lounge read something like “It’s OK to drink on the street,” so I thought this event might be a little more inebriated than last year’s formal. I found out I was only half right when I strolled up to the “bar,” where a bunch of students where chugging cups of sparkling grape juice.

I checked upstairs, where a few guys in suits were in an intense game of beer pong — root beer pong, that is.

But as they told us at honors college orientation, you don’t need alcohol to have a good time. And the dance floor didn’t disappoint.

Outfitted in Mardi-Gras masks, crazy sunglasses and paper crowns, the honors students were taking awkward group dancing to a whole new level of awesome-ness. The ballroom dance club veterans were twirling, the break-dancers were windmill-ing and everyone else was doing the generic honors-college grove.

There were a few exceptions. Some girls who brought their non-honors-college boyfriends were dancing in a manner unbecoming of their GPA. Some people who memorized hip-hop songs as a reprieve from their upper-level science classes were showing off their practiced choreography. And a few drunk freshman who didn’t get the “not a good idea to pre-game for the honors college formal” memo were stumbling around in the hallway.

Overall, though, the general merriment of sober group dancing prevailed, and I happily cavorted along to such classics as “Miss New Booty,” “The Electric Slide,” “Do the Locomotion,” and “Bye bye bye.”

But then 11 o’clock arrived, and it was time to leave. The kids who were cool enough to party afterwards but for some reason still enjoyed the formal headed out to their late evening engagements. Others headed out for a snack at the Diner or McDonalds.

And still others, perhaps the truly honors among the honors college, headed home to bed. Because, after all, there was still more homework to do in the morning.

Hour after hour

Nine hours of Asian cultural education might seem excessive. But it was all worth it to see the break-dancing monkeys.

For some reason, the campus was saturated with Asian events this weekend. It began on Friday night with the Graduate Student Association movie about Tibet (very long, but Martin Sheen's narrative goodness made it all worth it). Then the Sikh dancing festival at the HUB. And then, on Saturday, the "Khmer Transcendence" event.

As I walked in, I got a little nervous -- perhaps it was deja vu from the Korean variety show two weeks ago. The program was a full 12 pages long. But when I saw such features as a Cambodian version of "Irreplaceable" and "SWVA POL with American Break Dance," I knew I had to hang around.

The show began with some traditional Cambodian dances. Some of them ran more than 10 minutes each, but their pointy hats and sequined costumes sent my brain into sparkle overload for the duration.

Then came a Cambodian version of America's Next Top odel (the prize was a year's supply of mangoes and a 40-pound bag of rice), a Cambodian conversation (I thought I had memorized how to ask a girl out in the Khmer language, but the phrase quickly devolved in my memory into the Hawaiian "Mele Kalikimaka") and at last, the break dancing song.

The program introduced the dance: "In Cambodian legend, monkeys always fight evil; in fact they are army soldiers." And indeed, those monkey-masked men did look ready for some kung-fu fighting action when they crawled onto the stage. They began with an interpretative dance accompanied by traditional Cambodian instruments, but that music soon faded away in favor of a pounding bass. And the break dancing began.

Back flips. Windmills. Somersaults. All while wearing money masks. I still didn't understand what Cambodian monkeys have to do with break dancing, but I must concede that it was pretty cool.

At 1 a.m., the Cambodian festival finally ended - bringing my total hours of Asian culture for the weekend to six and a half hours.

Protection is Tasty

Maybe I'm weird, but I don't think people should waste sexual protection gear just to get a taste of its sweet, sugary goodness.

I don't think this is a problem with condoms. I mean, I don't think I've ever seen a guy take one out of his wallet, open it, and start licking just to get the sugar high.

But Friday night, I discovered another form of protection - the "dental dam" - is apparently much more tempting for extortion as a candy substitute.

Basically, it's just a giant sheet of latex, meant to prevent the spread of a sexually transmitted infection (STI). Colored latex. Flavored latex. In fact, it pretty much looks like an unrolled fruit-roll-up.

My STI-wise friend brought a few of these to a party to educate some of our curious friends. And as soon as she removed the strawberry-flavored dental dam from its hygienic bag, one of our friends seized it and began eagerly examining it.

And then he started licking it. And from the expression on his face, he apparently found it quite tasty. He called to another friend - "Hey, check this out!" And soon, there were two guys happily enjoying the fruit-flavored goodness.

I though about it, but decided against joining in. Call me a little heterosexually uptight, but something about multiple guys licking the sameSTI-protection device was a little bit of a turn off.

Glowsticks for Jesus

I was standing in the HUB on Saturday night when I saw them: girls dressed in colorful kimonos and holding shiny fans.

I didn't have tickets to see Charlie Murphy that night and I was planning on waiting by the door to see if someone with a ticket didn't show up. But being the sucker for bright, flashy objects that I am, I had to check these girls out first.

Something seemed a little funny when I stepped into Alumni Hall for what I discovered was "Dynamic Korea - a Cultural Variety Show." Maybe it was the neon-green programs. Maybe it was the calculating efficiency with which one of the kimono girls ushered me to a seat, using her fan like a glowing airplane-guiding baton.

But as I examined the program in the minutes before the program started, I realized what was giving me the weird vibe. This wasn't just any variety show. This was a Jesus variety show.

The events certainly looked exciting: a glow-stick performance, a rock performance of the Korean Anthem, a Taekwondo demonstration, a fan dance and a performance by Eliot Chang, a comedian and Asian activist. And something called "Neo Crusade Go."

But with the show co-sponsored by the Korean Students for Christ, some of the events had a interesting religious twist. For instance, the description of the glow-stick performance didn't mention raves or even shiny lights. It was all about "spreading the love of the Lord" in the Dominican Republic. Maybe they have a lot of glowsticks down there.

Then I started reading about "Neo Crusade Go." The description talked about the "torrent of socio-religious relations among Christians and non-Christians," and Christianity's messages to the general public. "This is not an attack to those who are non-Christians, but more of an outreach to those who have not yet heard the news so they may be saved," it read.

OK, it sounded gentle enough. But farther along the program read: "we feel it is essential to remind the world that without the Lord, there is only eternal damnation ready to clasp us with its decrepit claws."

Woah. Time to make a run for Charlie Murphy. I quickly looked to both sides and then casually walked out, trying to ignore the suspicious stares from the kimono ladies. Fortunately they let me go, and soon I was back in the loving embrace of the world's decrepit claws.

I made it into Charlie Murphy's performance, but a part of me is still a little sad. Now I may never know: WGWJU - What glowsticks would Jesus use?

On the Prowl

While volunteering with Habitat for Humanity over spring break, I quickly learned to avoid Alabama's flying nails, power tool injuries, alligator attacks, rouge fishing hooks, and bad drivers. But the most fearful, and yet, most intriguing danger in Alabama, is the cougar.

I first learned of this legendary species while riding along in the back of a pickup truck (quite a common site in Alabama). One of my friends asked the group what they thought of the cougar he had just seen. But we were in the middle of town, and I didn't see any wild animals around.

The cougar he was referring to was not a wild animal. It's a particular type of person -- an older woman seeking a younger man. The origin of the term is unclear, but Urbandictionary.com notes a commonality between the animal species and the woman: "Man is cougar's number one prey." It adds, "The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, propped up against a swanky bar in San Francisco (or other cities) waiting, watching, calculating; gearing up to sink her claws into an innocent young and strapping buck who happens to cross her path."

The term caught on with my group really quickly. At times, it seemed like the trip had turned into a cougar hunt. We spotted them in town, on the road, on television and at the beach.

I also learned the fine points of cougar identification, like how to separate the animal from the traditional MILF, slang for an attractive mother. While the MILF might just be admired from afar, the cougar is always "on the prowl," searching for her next Mrs. Robinson-style attack. There's also no requirement that a cougar be a mother or married. However, the consensus was that an "off-the-market" (perhaps 'poached' would be the term?) cougar was definitely worth more trophy points.

I thought this was all fun and games until the late night ride back to Penn State. It was then that one of the group members confessed that he had been the subject of a cougar attack -- and not just a random pouncing. This cougar came back three times to feed again. Plus she took his hat afterwards.

He said the cougar hunt was exciting at first, but it quickly became awkward, especially among his friends. He's trying to wean himself away right now, but a jealous cougar is more possessive than a grizzly bear with cubs.

So while I did learn a lot about construction, the South and life over spring break, I think I'll stick to admiring this animal from afar.

Feeling the deepness

There's nothing like poetry to jazz up a weekend at home.

While the rest of State College was reveling in the joys of "State Patty's Day," I was home this weekend to catch up on some sleep and homework. Well, I tried to tried to catch up on sleep and homework. I actually watched a lot of On Demand movies.

However, after an emotional viewing of Titanic, On the Beach, and Attack of the Clones, I put aside my remote Saturday night to attend a classical music concert where my brother was playing his bassoon.

As I rode downtown, though, I started to get a little nervous – where was I going to get something exciting to write about for nightlife blog? I had already blown Friday night watching movies and a classical music concert didn't sound like it was going to be terribly exciting to a college audience.

As the concert began, my fears seemed to be confirmed. Nothing out of the ordinary in this mix of dedicated students, proud parents, and rich benefactors.

But then the emo-kid walked onto stage.

Normally, it's not unusual to find an emotional, dark-clothes-loving kid among a batch of adolescents. But at a classical music concert, where everyone else had trimmed hair and bright eyes, the guy stood out with his dark clothes, penetrating eyes, and long, dark hair, streaked with highlights.

The other students in his quartet settled into their chairs as the emo-kid stood up and announced that the group would be performing a piece he wrote while working as a parking attendant in Ocean City, New Jersey. (Note to self: Tip extra next time at the beach – he could be the next Beethoven.) Emo-kid explained that the his piece was inspired by the children and ferris wheels at carnivals and the "loss of innocence" that we all experience.

He also announced that he had written two poems to go with his music. He began by describing the "wheel of electric fire," then moved on to the child's eyes: "searching for nothing and finding everything." Then he moved to the landscape: "Behind the heat of modern chaos, the ocean copulates with the stars."

By the time he was finished, I was starting to feel really moved. I felt like turning to the old people on my right and saying "Don't fight the deepness." And I almost wanted to go copulate with some stars myself.

I caught up with the guy after the concert and asked him if he actually wrote the music on the job. He said no – that he usually thought it up at work and wrote it down later – a "very disorganized composition process." I complimented him and my parents took a picture just in case he hit it big.

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.

Robotic Rumba

I’m a fan of non-traditional dancing.

That’s not to say I have anything against the bumping and grinding gyrations that tend to dominate State College’s clubs and fraternities.

But I gave up a while ago on such dancing tips as “move your hips more” and “feel the beat.” Instead, I decided to specialize in such high quality old school dances as the electric slide, the macarena, the shopping cart and the mother of all inept dances: the robot.

And this weekend, the hours of practing those jerky head and hand movements finally paid off.

I ventured out on Thursday night and ended up at a fraternity. With many of the campus socialities preparing to leave for canning trips the next day, I figured the parties were more crowded than usual. In any case, I arrived after midnight and most people had already paired off or formed small groups.

I finally ended up hanging out in an awkward group with these two “Um, yeah, don’t really know anyone here” girls and a thin and gangly fellow with glasses.

After the move-your-legs-back-and-forth dance got a little old, I decided to break the ice with a nice macarena rendition. To my surpise, instead of giving me weird looks, the girls actually picked it up. Even the guy eventually joined in, now that it had become the cool thing to do.

With the macarena so successful, I decided the robot might have a chance as well. Besides, I had picked up some pretty amazing robot moves at last week’s break dancing competition and I was anxious to try them out.

I started with the sharp elbow movements, then the head flex. And the rest of the group actually bought it. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the guy was trying to get with the girls by out-roboting me. But no way was I going to let that happen.

Try as he might, he just wasn’t prepared for the rhythm-defying movements of all my extremities. He started to get the hands down, but the back and legs were just out of his league.

Just when it looked like I had a clear connection with the robo-admiring girls, her boyfriend and another, far less awkward, guy showed up. And the electricity was lost.

But at least it was a start. With a little more oil in the joints, the future of the robot looks bright.

T-shirt Troubles

It was Friday night and I had nothing to wear.

No, I’m not going metro. I just wasn’t ready to get back into the laundry-doing routine. With the majority of my shirts residing in the hamper, I had two choices left: my new, fashionable, sparkly long sleve shirts, and a black and white shirt with the words: "GEEK - PLEASE DATE."

It was a tough choice, but I decided to hope that girls like honesty.

I figured the best place to try out my new attire would be the HUB. I mean, it’s LateNight - there’s got to be at least one geek-friendly girl in the entire student union.

Unfortunatley, anyone even remotely geeky was already fully immersed in bingo by the time I got there.

So I tried the break dancing competition in Alumni Hall instead. I didn’t have much luck there, either.

Although I think my clothes were less dorky than the guy in the golfing attire, the ability to spin around on your back seems to count more with the ladies than what you’re wearing. After watching Rukkus, Frylock, and Da Future battle it out for break-dancing champion, I started to think that maybe I was targeting the wrong audience with my geek shirt.

So I left the HUB and tried a fraternity instead. I was surprised they even let me in with the geek shirt on, but once inside, the level of drunken revelry was so high that I doubted anyone there was still capable of reading anway.

Saturday night, I was determined to try something new fashion-wise. In fact, I was going to a highlighter party so I didn’t really have to think about what to wear. I just threw on my trusty Palmer Art Museum t-shirt, put my mini-highlighter in my pocket, and off I went.

Since the point of the party is to write on people's clothing, I figured everyone else could determine my fashion statement for me. All I had to do was get cool people to write cool stuff on my shirt and I was sure a change in my Facebook relationship-status would follow.

When I took of the shirt at the end of the night, one person had written that I was "sexy." There were also encouragements towards non-traditional intercourse and a drawing of what appears to be a bone-shaped, hairy object that I "love."

So while both nights were highly entertaining, my Facebook relationship status remains at single. At least that will leave me more time to do laundry this week.

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.