Why not? Miami has been rated, in the past, as one of the biggest party schools in the country by several publications. I forgot that I don't usually believe what I read in trendy men's magazines, the ones full of more overpriced cologne samples than anything remotely intelligent.
Based on the three parties I visited, I'm convinced that the majority of students who attend these things believe that students at universities party just like they do. Even if I'd never lived in another college town, I think I'd have to disagree with the trendy men's magazines. Based on my field observations, I'd have to give the scene a D, as in Damn, I wish I Could Learn to Pretend I'm Having Fun.
Party Numero Uno:
If there is one thing I mastered in my nearly eight years' as a professional student, it was the ability to party hard and at full force. Somehow, I made it through two full years at the University of Northern Colorado, where I decided to skip the whole "college rebellion" phase and went full-on badass.
While some guys satisfied themselves with this silly female-to-male ratio of 2.2:1 offered by Colorado's party school, I went for the women with teardrop tattoos, unstable strippers with personality disorders, and girls more interested in leading me down to the local drug dealer's apartment.
I've survived parties at University of California-Santa Barbara's notorious Isla Vista neighborhood, where whole genres of porn have been invented. At my supposedly mild alma mater, I learned that the tired, old method of taking shots out of a sorority girl's bellybutton was nowhere near as fun as simply dowsing an overworked computer science major in tequila and...well...you get the idea.
I must say, however, that watching a bunch of undergrads, packed into an overpriced tenament, wrecklessly drinking from a communal liquored punchbowl, playing some game called "Beer Pong," is a unique experience.
Um...yeah. A girl asked me if I was in her microbiology class and told me she had just serviced some guy in closet. Why? Because he said she looked like Natalie Portman (she looked nothing like Natalie Portman.)
Please call me when you move the beer pong to a beach bonfire, where at least I can get drunk and skinnydip in Pacific to re-prove my theory that brief hypothermia makes boredom less damned tedious.
Party No. 2 - The Wrath of Pong:
Another party. Same packed slum of a house. Same game of beer pong with different players. Like I said, back in the days when Dinosaur Jr. still roamed the earth and it was still cool to get drunk and have a little fun at a party, we had games like this. But they tended to get boring after the first...hour.
So...um...what's the deal with college females wearing pants with word Juicy written across the ass? I'd never noticed before, until a colleague pointed it out to me earlier that day. I assume it's meant to convey some message that your ass is somehow like a can of V8. But for some reason, my mind translates the word into Ask Me about Effective Chlamydia Treatments.
I made the mistake of striking up a conversation with a woman on a porch while having a cigarette. She was wearing a Ramones tee-shirt; I thought it was pretty bad ass for a girl to wear a plaid skirt and such a shirt in a community known for its Reaganomics-efficient sense of conformity.
I spent twenty minutes listening as she explained she had just broken up with her boyfriend back home and she wasn't looking to meet someone and how it was too soon for her to start seeing anyone and how he was the first boy she kissed and she didn't think she'd ever fall in love again and how she thought I seemed like a nice guy and she'd seen me around town but she wasn't ready for a commitment because she just got out of a two-week relationship and...
Twenty minutes of my life. Gone.
I will never compliment a girl for wearing a Ramones tee shirt again.
Party No. 3 - Abandonment Issues
My escorts abandoned me at about midnight, apparently, I was less of a party guy than they imagined.
Either that, or they figured this extremely intoxicated blonde "grad student" who insisted on showing me a Kentucky driver's lisense that looked nothing like her had somehow cast a spell over me.
Oh yeah. Nothing like a gal who stinks of Coors Light, vomit, and perfume, in a room full of spoiled WASPs who think they'd survive an hour in East St. Louis because they can butcher a Ludacris tune, to get the ol' ZenFo Pro in the mood.
Somehow, she talked me into going into her room. Actually, she simply hung on me until I gave in. It wasn't the weight that pushed me up a flight of stairs; it was the threat of accidental impalement on the protruding pelvic bone of a woman intent, apparently, on earning a "master's degree" in severe eating disorders and early death.
I escaped only because she recognized some girl from her dorm and simply staggered off. (Yeah, um, better work on the Kentucky grad student impersonation before using that ID to get into a bar.)
# # #Time of Lab Test:
2 hrs 20 minutes
In bed by 1:30 a.m.
O mg. (Not counting inhaled fumes.)
Number of Times Kansas' Carry On My Wayward Son Heard:
Number of Times the variations of the phrase "She needs to lose weight" was overheard applied of students weighing under 110lbs:
Yeah, welcome to lovely Oxford Fucking Ohio.