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?
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
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
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.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
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.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
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."
"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."
Sunday, December 03, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
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
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
Sunday, October 08, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
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?”
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?”
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