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."
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Sunday, November 12, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
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.
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.
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