I failed myself again. I did the unspeakable. I left Athens for a night and decided to party somewhere else - this time at the University of Dayton.
If anyone has consistently read my editorial contributions, who are pretty much just my parents and The Post's Associate Editor, I am beginning to sound like an Appalachian Ohio version of Manhattan Guy from Sex and the City. Yes, I just admitted to watching that show, but after months of Brokeback Mountain jokes, there are worse ways to emasculate myself.
Last weekend, I found myself in a stereotypical college apartment at UD: Miller posters hanging haphazardly along walls with too many holes for explanation, a beer pong table in the middle of the room and only enough other furniture to seat the irredeemably drunk, a Taco Bell rug on the bathroom floor and - though I did not see it - I'm sure there was a John Belushi poster somewhere.
I had no plans of going out that night, though after a short dinner with my parents and a laundry bonanza, I was sitting in the family room, experimenting with the DSL and listening to my father's wealth of newfound knowledge of satellite television.
When the phone rang, I jumped at it with the desperation of a dateless girl on prom night. Hey
we're hanging out in the ghetto my friend said.
The ghetto is the rundown residential area for UD students. Every house has a grill chained to the front porch and an inspiring beer can wind chime.
When I arrived, the party was in the awkward phase between an intimate pre-gaming session and a belligerent, faceless kegger where everyone knew someone who knew someone and no one would remember a single name.
Personally, I prefer the former, as mass inebriation generally leads to loud music and loud people and before long, fists flying at walls and faces indiscriminately.
Then Heely showed up - his name might be Healy; I wasn't too concerned with spelling at 2 a.m. - and this bearded, raging alcoholic decided to destroy the place. He started a fight with someone half his size for reasons still unbeknownst to me. During the ensuing scramble, a group of 20 guys ran outside and came back, ran to different rooms in the apartment and eventually split up to head to other, presumably less violent, parties. When the blubbering behemoth said a faux-pleasant goodbye, two doors had been pulled off the hinges, two holes were punched into walls, a window was pulled out and the doorknob in the front was broken off.
I busied myself with small talk with the other pacifist guests, whose names I will not remember. The constant slamming noises and intense screams were rather distracting. I started sputtering inane things about OU. I'm pretty sure I went so far as to say people don't fight where I'm from as images of bar fights and street scuffles ran through my mind. What I meant to say is that Healy doesn't fight at OU, as far as I know.
Unlocking the door to my dorm the next night with a basket of clean clothes, I felt triumphant I had once again traveled to another school and trounced their so-called social scene.
The pride was immediately replaced by embarrassment. Why had I told people no one fights at OU? As I walked up the stairs, passing handfuls of people in their best green and white gear, a solitary teenager strode past wearing a Miami sweatshirt. I remembered exactly why I had said it. I belong to a community, a school. Puffed up pride, downright deceit: sure, I practiced both of these, but in the face of Bobcat loyalty and sneering private-school students, I don't think I had a choice.
-Justin Thompson is a sophomore journalism major and staff writer for The Post. Send him an e-mail at jb315004@ohiou.edu.
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