Mud.
But seriously….
I sat here thinking what to write. An ode? What does that consist of exactly? How about going old school with an acrostic? That seemed super poetic back in fifth grade. Then it came to me: a letter. So here we go: a letter to House Party. 3…2…1…
Dear House Party Weekend,
So no, I was not born in the right generation, one that entitled me to the effervescent three-day celebration of music, love, and well, life in the ripe year of turmoil, 1969. Sure there are conspiracies and a gamut of recollections depicting the festival far from as beautiful as its original publicity illustrated. However, as a wandering Dead Head in the wrong generation, you, my friend, House Party Weekend, are as close as I will get to such a celebration of life, and the pursuit of well in this case, fratiness.
I just want to write to you to say thank you. Just straight up thank you. This is not like that forced thank you letter your mother adamantly demands you write to your estranged elderly aunt who got you yet another copy of “Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul”; I mean seriously, you’re no longer a teenager and sure as hell do not need a mass produced child encyclopedia to teach you how to deal with stress. But to you, House Party Weekend, thank you for your breath of fresh air.
Everyone eagerly awaits your arrival. From those in dry season (#suckstosuck) to those who just never seem to be sober (and to you, time to call AA), your weekend of methodical madness provides us endlessly active Bucknell students with an element of what seems like unachievable relaxation at any other point in the year.
The setting, the attire; a snapshot
Let’s set the mood. It does not matter if it is rain or shine, snow or sleet, or even a heat wave; we are ready for you come Friday at 1 pm. Try us, Mother Nature. As the first weekend of spring, we will ceaselessly pray to whatever god is out there…Buddha even…for that perfected winter transition weather so that we can be the upmost Bucknellian as possible. Picture it: frat boys shamelessly rocking (or attempting to) Easter-esc pastels with embroidered prints, as arbitrary as bulldogs, oozing the scent of the Vineyard Vines store on Greenwich Avenue and their female counterparts dressed to the nines in a variety of sundresses ranging in styles from the popular patterns of the Aztec era at Urban Outfitters to bright and bold Lily Pulitzer detail straight out of Nantucket. The weather defines the attire. Not to fear though, if rain is a contender, we parade around in such proper garments: Hunter rain boots, a must, and a waterproof Barbour, say goodbye to basic rain gear, House Party, we will not let Al Rocker’s report interfere with our opportunity to epitomize Bucknell fashion.
Again, no matter the weather coverage, there will be mud. As prominent as the rambunctious college behavior that will ensue, mud will be in attendance. Mud on your shoes. Legs. Jeans. Face. Hands. Mud with beer. Ahhh, the classic combination of mud and beer…and well, everywhere. This just creates a sloppy mess. Not the sloppy mess you spotted on that notorious elevated surface of the America register with her skirt riding just a little too high for public appeal. But rather a sloppy mess somewhat similar to the season’s first slip and slide: alike your inability to master the proper run, slip, and slide to remain on the yellow plastic pathway. This time round we are running, slipping, and, of course, sliding in the wrong attire and social scene only to be saved by an overly excited spotting of that girl that sits next to you in Management 101, clearly deserving a hug; slid in to home and saaaafee! We don’t fear you House Party mud: we embrace you.
The mood, the feelings; the never-bending smile
Pure exuberance, like a little kid on Christmas morning but knowing there are more gifts to come than just those under the tree. House Party Weekend, the gift that keeps on giving. Santa truly has nothing on you, House Party, except for the rocking body, clearly, and seriously, the ability to fly a sled, don’t hide your jealousy, that’s pretty cool. Like Santa, though, you have the love, faith, and admiration of about 3,500 students. I dare you to find one person not smiling this weekend.
Mud was our first “M” word defining your excellence, House Party, and the second is music. Live or DJ-ed. Paid performers or talented peers. An attempt at actually having an Avicii concert or pretending we are down south with a performance of a country (or Amish? The questions we ask in Central, PA…) band. No matter the backyard, the tent, or the house, your music, House Party, will “ignite your bones” (thanks Coldplay). Picture this: everyone dancing. But this is not your average Saturday night frat basement boogie. This is pure, unadulterated dancing. Swinging, jumping, you name it; the ground is your very own DDR machine and your body rocking with the freedom of weekend.
Rewind to Woodstock and my interminable hippie references: that classic image of a woman swaying to the sweet sounds of Hendrix’s guitar, in sheer adrenaline. That, my friends, is how I picture the mood of House Party. (Note: I think we are getting towards the idea of an Ode here or I am just being obnoxiously poetic.)
The limitless college adventure; “I’m Shmacked”
My sincere apologies to President Bravman and his equals but one cannot cover House Party without touching upon the elements of college recklessness. Hidden above in my vernacular is the single most descriptive word for you, House Party Weekend: debauchery. You allow us to follow the infamous collegiate ways of Animal House. But don’t worry faculty, we aren’t installing any Jacuzzis in our rooms any time soon. For very smart students, we dismiss our inhibitions for just one weekend and follow where the ridiculousness leads us. It is as if we are on Cloud Nine; floating from backyard to backyard, breaking down the fences that once divided land physically and Bucknellians figuratively. High from the created energy of music, freedom, and well, consumption, we roam Downtown without reservation. Just for this one weekend, we look to free ourselves from any repression or prevention. In simplest terms, we are the image that conjures when one says “college student.”
But you, my friend, are not a sprint but rather a marathon. We start early and go late. Bedtime is no time and there is absolutely no napping. Now, when have you ever heard of a college student denying naptime? Exactly. We push through. We go to new heights of Super Saturday-ing that no school has ever “day raged” like before. And we combine the nightlife of a city school with that of an isolated one; dancing like we are at a club but partying like a fraternity. Did I mention we push through? We show Andre who is boss and Natty Light its purpose. We run marathons when others sprint.
And it’s all thanks to you, House Party.
Not everyone positions Woodstock juxtaposed to you, House Party, relating the two in terms of freedom, love, and life.So, this is just my letter to you, House Party, but let it be said in the wise words of Robert Zimmerman (Bob Dylan) that “the answer my friend is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind”; where the wind of House Party takes each student is the letter he will write to you. This is just mine.
Eagerly awaiting your arrival,
Bacharach