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.