Cornell's Party Mob Scene

Editorial by: Eric Shive on September 18th, 2005 at 10:22 AM

Hopefully, one day there will be parties at Cornell where there is adequate space for all of the attendees, where beverages other than Nati Ice and Beast are served, and where the boys and girls leave enough space between them for the Holy Spirit when they dance.

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After the first few weeks of the semester have passed, everyone at Cornell whose idea of a fun night entails more than a game of Scrabble and a quart of Häagen-Daz has adventured at least once to a party. And why shouldn’t they? Parties can be fun. It’s always pleasant to spend time with friends and enjoy some fraternal bonding on the weekends. As the saying goes, there’s no “I” in drunk.

However, even the mildly critical partygoer will have noticed certain repellant factors present at many if not most of these events. The first-noticed noxious element of the typical Cornell party is the grotesque noise that passes as music, or “phat tunes” as they’re called these days. At many of these gatherings the genre-du-jour is commonly rap. For those of you unfamiliar with this style of music, it is a series of rhyming lyrics about any number of topics (killing the police, raping women, selling drugs, etc) performed by the dregs of urban society for the masses of suburban white boys who want “street cred.”

Since these rap songs are usually difficult to understand (perhaps the University should begin offering courses on Ebonics) the general response when this music is played is limited to rhythmic gyrations more appropriate for a National Geographic special than a dance party. The underlying carnality expressed through these “phat tunes” is also accompanied by the social phenomenon of “grinding.” Sorry kids, there will be no opportunity to do the Charleston. Just hump each other’s legs.

Not to be unfair to the rap community (wouldn’t want to offend a group of murderers and drug dealers now would we!) there are other disappointing musical choices displayed at Cornell parties. Occasionally a party will play something known as “techno”. Techno has even less of a claim to be music than the pernicious rap. It is the acoustic equivalent of a strobe light. So much effort is involved in merely avoiding a seizure that any opportunity to enjoy oneself is eliminated.

Maybe it’s a pipe dream, but could someone just once play country music at a party? Or how about any song that doesn’t involve ho’s and b*tches? Hell, even assorted pop music would be better in most cases. Nothing is more frustrating then trying to talk to someone while Gwen Stefani shouts in the background that she “ain’t no Hollaback Girl”. What the hell is a Hollaback Girl anyway? Is this actually music? Does anyone else care?

After accepting the auditory frustrations of the Cornell party, the rest of the senses are primed for observation. Olfactory glands will recoil at the smell of stale beer, body odor, and the putrid stench of marijuana wafting from huddled enclaves of libertarians wishing the war on drugs had already ended. Involuntarily rubbing up against hundreds of sweaty and disgusting students will make anyone wish their sense of touch could be temporarily suspended.

Those brave enough to try the cheap beer or mysterious substance known as “jungle juice” (where’s the NAACP on this one?) will be rewarded with a horrid aftertaste and utter disappointment. None of these sensory experiences compare, however, to seeing your peers interacting with each other. Of course once you realize who your peers actually are, you may want to reconsider living out the rest of your college life as a hermit.

Of the several types of party-going Cornellians, one of the most prominent is the Drunk Whorish Bimbo. She can be seen stumbling around in a tube top (yes, in winter too), tight pants, and Ugg boots looking to hook up with the first thing she sees with a Y chromosome. Daddy’s little girl sure has grown up.

Drunk Whorish Bimbo usually arrives at the party with a group of other sorostitutes so there will be people to drag her home after she passes out and/or is raped. Among this throng of whores, the odds are that at least one will end up crying in a corner by the end of the night. She could be the preacher’s daughter who went wild, feeling that last tidbit of Christian shame slipping away. Or she could be a tramp having flashbacks to the last time in her life that she had dignity.

After the first Drunk Whorish Bimbo passes out and the second starts crying in a corner, the third is primed to make her move. This next creature to emerge from the herd of floozies is arguably the most dangerous: the ugly girl who thinks she’s hot.

Misinterpreting the meaningless flirtations of drunken guys, Little Miss Not-So-Hot proceeds to stalk her prey in the hopes that his vision has become so blurry as to confuse her Rosie-O’Donnell-esque physique with Lindsay Lohan’s. If the victim still proves unyielding, there is always hope that he will eventually pass out so the she-wolf can ravage his lifeless body (making sure to take plenty of pictures to link to from her facebook profile).

Of course, women are not completely to blame for the heathenish promiscuity flooding the campus party scene. It should not be news to anyone that men are generally pigs. Add into the equation a culture that reinforces these bestial qualities along with copious amounts of alcohol and it should surprise no one that most men behave like animals.

While the great majority of partygoers can be classified either as a Drunk Whorish Bimbo or lascivious man-whore, there are always a few outliers that make the experience even more interesting. Occasionally townies, easily identified as the white people with dreadlocks smelling of hemp, will appear at a Cornell event. Sometimes they are only there to sell drugs, other times they honestly wish to enjoy the festivities. Either way, they are creepy and unwelcome.

Other party anomalies include the irritating rave kid who has convinced himself that he is cool because he can play with glow sticks, pale engineering guy seeing women in person for the first time in his life, and depressed alumnus trying to relive his youth.

The rarest and most interesting of all partygoers, however, is that of the conservative activist. He is usually a leader of Cornell’s most prominent right-wing organization who sets out with his cohorts to let loose and have a good time. Even though he has fun, he always heeds the moral guidelines of Pat Buchanan: “No to cocaine. No to marijuana. And a question mark over Jack Daniels.” As much as he tries to avoid it, he always gets that sinking feeling that we have already lost the Culture War. Luckily, he can be goaded into keeping his comments to himself; that is, at least until he heads back to his computer to vent. Then all bets are off.

Hopefully, one day there will be parties at Cornell where there is adequate space for all of the attendees, where beverages other than Nati Ice and Beast are served, and where the boys and girls leave enough space between them for the Holy Spirit when they dance. Then again, the probability of that happening is approximately the same as 50-Cent and the G-Unit passing a literacy test. Forget it, we’re all screwed. Pass me another drink.

 

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