Highlights For Children (Or College Kids)
As I said in my previous entry, I had a fan-fucking-tastic summer. But that statement means nothing if I don't qualify it with some sort of evidence. That's what I plan to do here. I'm going to recount every good night I can remember. It's going to be a muddled, jumbled mess because I have no rhyme or reason for the order, and my memory may not be up to snuff. But nonetheless, I'm going to tell you why I had such a great summer.
I've already talked about the Collegian, but I never really talked about what was so great about it. The first thing you must realize is that State College, being a college town (it's even in the name, for fuck's sake), is a ghost town in the summers. Some people stick around for work or to take a few classes, but mostly people just want to go home. Not that I don't love my family or anything, but being away from home is much better for me than living with them. I don't think I'm the only person who feels this way, which makes me wonder why more people wouldn't stay in State College for the summer.
Because of the nature of the summers here, most of the people at the Collegian had few others to hang out with. In addition to the lack of available hangout buddies, the nature of the newspaper business makes for very late nights. Some people are in the newsroom until 2 a.m., every Sunday to Thursday. But a benefit of the business is that early mornings are very optional. Also, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights are always completely wide open. Here's an excerpt from an article that proves my point further, if you haven't gotten it yet:
"The line between alcoholic and journalist is nearly invisible, which makes it hard to tell if you have a substance abuse problem. Historically, the best writers have been alcoholics or drug addicts. Although no prime examples come to mind, I’ve been told this fact by many journalists—and the media doesn’t lie.
Alcohol and writing seem to be a natural fit like paper and pen. This is probably because it’s hard to hear the muse when sober. Working in media only requires one thing: a high tolerance for alcohol. And the rest will fall into place."
As I've told friends recently, this summer has spiked my tolerance level pretty well. It's a trade-off. On the one hand, it's more expensive and more lengthy getting drunk, but on the other hand, it's easier to pace myself. I'm in prime condition for a longer period of time. However, if you're trying to get irresponsible, it's a bit harder. That's when beer just doesn't cut it.
Back to my point: journalists are, by nature, alcoholics. They work in a high-stress environment, constantly juggling multiple deadlines, and relying on numerous other people to meet those deadlines. They're also nighthawks, getting off work just around the time happy hour is in full force. But you know what? I kind of love it that way. There's a lot of camaraderie in newspapers. That's why on most nights you could find a few Collegian workers kicking back and having a few drinks together.
Sometimes, a few drinks became many drinks. On one particular occasion, Terry Casey's apartment featured drinking games, lots of beer, strong jungle juice, and ska music. If you're reading this, don't ever, ever, ever put on ska music after I've been drinking. You, like Terry, will have lamps to be fixed. Also, it's probably best to stay away from Weezer, as I'm wont to air guitar along and bump into Terry's fish tank, splashing water onto electrical equipment. That was a different night, full of mixed drinks and a 12-pack of PBR to cap off the night. There's some small victory found in waking up in your own room after you've blacked out.
On the other hand, there's a sense of achievement when you wake up in a room you've never seen before, too. That's what happened the morning (afternoon?) after the summer-ending Collegian social. Fortunately for me, I was way down on the list of the sloppiest drunks that night. Many poor decisions were made, and my only fault was apparently demonstrating proper (well, no, not "proper") make-out procedure on my boss. I also had a little Ziggy Stardust spirit in me that night, but I'm not going to explain that any further.
That wasn't the only night I had some flair going for me. A few nights later, the Collegian had its last issue of the summer printed. We celebrated, obviously, with an all-nighter and breakfast in the morning, to which I wore some gigantic star-shaped sunglasses. I was on fire. After leaving breakfast, we marvelled at the sight of 30 or so people in white shirts, black ties, and black pants walking down the other side of the street, two by two. I got excited. All of a sudden, I was running in between each pair of uniformed men, without a care in the world. If my celebration of chaos amidst a sea of order didn't sum up my entire summer, I don't know what did.
It wasn't all a drunken haze, though. Sometimes I was really high instead. Like the time Terry, Dan Winklebleck and I left Kayur's house very hungry and in search of food. Kayur and I had gone on one of these pilgrimages before, to The Diner, only to find that they don't keep their 24/7 schedule during the summer. This time, we would not be denied. We made the trek to Canyon Pizza, the best drunk pizza/worst sober pizza in the world, hoping they hadn't closed early. We arrived at 3:15 to find the lights off and the back door closed. But to our glee, a girl was still behind the counter. All we wanted was a couple slices apiece, but the girl quite frankly made us an offer we couldn't refuse. After we placed our order, she turned halfway around and said, "How about I give you all that for ten bucks?" Six slices of plain pizza, two slices of pepperoni, two slices of pepper and onion, and three breadsticks--for ten bucks. We'd have been crazy not to do it. We took our food out front of the establishment and ate it in silence. We came nowhere close to finishing it all, and Terry took it back to his apartment where his roommates finished it the next day. I will talk about this night for the rest of my life.
A lot of the stories I'll tell from this summer aren't about me; they're about the people I hung out with. However, I'm a bit tentative to write about other people in a blog that's going on Facebook for all to see. Also, I'm self-centered and there's no way I'm writing about other people in MY blog. Just kidding. Well, half-kidding.
I've been pretty broke the past few weeks because I can't conserve my own money, so the Drink of the Day thing is pretty useless since I've probably already written about everything I've drank recently. However, Unimart is trying to ruin my life by putting sugar-filled drinks on sale every so often. This summer, I lived on their one dollar liter bottles of Pepsi products. Now, I'm afraid I'm going to spend all my spare change on dollar-fifty gallons of iced tea. Seriously, Unimart, stop trying to straight up murder my ass.
In closing, listen to Pavement and the Pixies. That is all.
I've already talked about the Collegian, but I never really talked about what was so great about it. The first thing you must realize is that State College, being a college town (it's even in the name, for fuck's sake), is a ghost town in the summers. Some people stick around for work or to take a few classes, but mostly people just want to go home. Not that I don't love my family or anything, but being away from home is much better for me than living with them. I don't think I'm the only person who feels this way, which makes me wonder why more people wouldn't stay in State College for the summer.
Because of the nature of the summers here, most of the people at the Collegian had few others to hang out with. In addition to the lack of available hangout buddies, the nature of the newspaper business makes for very late nights. Some people are in the newsroom until 2 a.m., every Sunday to Thursday. But a benefit of the business is that early mornings are very optional. Also, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights are always completely wide open. Here's an excerpt from an article that proves my point further, if you haven't gotten it yet:
"The line between alcoholic and journalist is nearly invisible, which makes it hard to tell if you have a substance abuse problem. Historically, the best writers have been alcoholics or drug addicts. Although no prime examples come to mind, I’ve been told this fact by many journalists—and the media doesn’t lie.
Alcohol and writing seem to be a natural fit like paper and pen. This is probably because it’s hard to hear the muse when sober. Working in media only requires one thing: a high tolerance for alcohol. And the rest will fall into place."
As I've told friends recently, this summer has spiked my tolerance level pretty well. It's a trade-off. On the one hand, it's more expensive and more lengthy getting drunk, but on the other hand, it's easier to pace myself. I'm in prime condition for a longer period of time. However, if you're trying to get irresponsible, it's a bit harder. That's when beer just doesn't cut it.
Back to my point: journalists are, by nature, alcoholics. They work in a high-stress environment, constantly juggling multiple deadlines, and relying on numerous other people to meet those deadlines. They're also nighthawks, getting off work just around the time happy hour is in full force. But you know what? I kind of love it that way. There's a lot of camaraderie in newspapers. That's why on most nights you could find a few Collegian workers kicking back and having a few drinks together.
Sometimes, a few drinks became many drinks. On one particular occasion, Terry Casey's apartment featured drinking games, lots of beer, strong jungle juice, and ska music. If you're reading this, don't ever, ever, ever put on ska music after I've been drinking. You, like Terry, will have lamps to be fixed. Also, it's probably best to stay away from Weezer, as I'm wont to air guitar along and bump into Terry's fish tank, splashing water onto electrical equipment. That was a different night, full of mixed drinks and a 12-pack of PBR to cap off the night. There's some small victory found in waking up in your own room after you've blacked out.
On the other hand, there's a sense of achievement when you wake up in a room you've never seen before, too. That's what happened the morning (afternoon?) after the summer-ending Collegian social. Fortunately for me, I was way down on the list of the sloppiest drunks that night. Many poor decisions were made, and my only fault was apparently demonstrating proper (well, no, not "proper") make-out procedure on my boss. I also had a little Ziggy Stardust spirit in me that night, but I'm not going to explain that any further.
That wasn't the only night I had some flair going for me. A few nights later, the Collegian had its last issue of the summer printed. We celebrated, obviously, with an all-nighter and breakfast in the morning, to which I wore some gigantic star-shaped sunglasses. I was on fire. After leaving breakfast, we marvelled at the sight of 30 or so people in white shirts, black ties, and black pants walking down the other side of the street, two by two. I got excited. All of a sudden, I was running in between each pair of uniformed men, without a care in the world. If my celebration of chaos amidst a sea of order didn't sum up my entire summer, I don't know what did.
It wasn't all a drunken haze, though. Sometimes I was really high instead. Like the time Terry, Dan Winklebleck and I left Kayur's house very hungry and in search of food. Kayur and I had gone on one of these pilgrimages before, to The Diner, only to find that they don't keep their 24/7 schedule during the summer. This time, we would not be denied. We made the trek to Canyon Pizza, the best drunk pizza/worst sober pizza in the world, hoping they hadn't closed early. We arrived at 3:15 to find the lights off and the back door closed. But to our glee, a girl was still behind the counter. All we wanted was a couple slices apiece, but the girl quite frankly made us an offer we couldn't refuse. After we placed our order, she turned halfway around and said, "How about I give you all that for ten bucks?" Six slices of plain pizza, two slices of pepperoni, two slices of pepper and onion, and three breadsticks--for ten bucks. We'd have been crazy not to do it. We took our food out front of the establishment and ate it in silence. We came nowhere close to finishing it all, and Terry took it back to his apartment where his roommates finished it the next day. I will talk about this night for the rest of my life.
A lot of the stories I'll tell from this summer aren't about me; they're about the people I hung out with. However, I'm a bit tentative to write about other people in a blog that's going on Facebook for all to see. Also, I'm self-centered and there's no way I'm writing about other people in MY blog. Just kidding. Well, half-kidding.
I've been pretty broke the past few weeks because I can't conserve my own money, so the Drink of the Day thing is pretty useless since I've probably already written about everything I've drank recently. However, Unimart is trying to ruin my life by putting sugar-filled drinks on sale every so often. This summer, I lived on their one dollar liter bottles of Pepsi products. Now, I'm afraid I'm going to spend all my spare change on dollar-fifty gallons of iced tea. Seriously, Unimart, stop trying to straight up murder my ass.
In closing, listen to Pavement and the Pixies. That is all.
posted by Kevin A. Doran at 2:08 AM
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