Walking to Fisher-Bennett Hall on Monday afternoon, I saw this guy:
Yep, there he was: strutting along Locust Walk, listening to an iPod, wearing a sleeveless shirt, shorts, and sandals. Nothing really out of the ordinary, except it was 51 DEGREES OUTSIDE.
The weirdest thing was that, despite the rest of his outfit, he was wearing gloves. Is it possible that his hands were the only part of his body that had the ability to be affected by temperature? I think not.
And you know what that means: the holiday season is upon us. Thanks to eagle-eyed Street editor Eliza Rothstein for snapping this pic–if you have a better one, send it to us!
We all party. I will not bore you, or myself, by listing the many, many events of the past couple weeks that have spurred on reckless behavior (and besides, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, just read the rest of this blog. Gosh.), but suffice to say: there has been a lot of revelty around here.
As your Emily Post liaison for the millenial generation, there are many things about wild partying that I should probably be critiquing. Vomit, for one, is a subject no one should ever stop criticizing. Along the same lines, dirty hook-ups, one-night stands, keg stands, drunk eating…all of these and more fascinating topics that, in my opinion, have a specific protocol and deserve their own individual discussions. For this week, however, I am going to concentrate on a personal favorite: passing out.
I get it, Boy-Who-Fell-Asleep-on-My-Couch, you were tired! Sure, Girl-in-Philly-Diner, your friends will probably wake you up before you leave. And who doesn’t enjoy a sighting of Couple-Spooning-on-the-Bed in a room in which everyone has decided to continue the after-party? But, and I’ve got to be honest here readers, there is a time and a place for passing out, particularly drunkenly. That place is your bed, the bed of a willing companion or even something bed-like (read: couch). That place is not in front of Rodin.
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Upon leaving Hill this morning, my nose met with an unfamiliar and unwelcome stench. Why, I wondered, did our pristine campus smell like garbage? Were the freshmen from New Jersey that homesick that they had to defile Locust Walk with a trash mountain this morning? Was this comeuppance from the disgruntled former employees of the 40th Street McDonald’s? Either way, as I approached the piles of trash outside Van Pelt, all I knew was that I almost preferred that funky SEPTA smell to whatever it was that was hitting my nose.
UTB is personally insulted!
But none of my predictions were true. Instead, it was a demonstration encouraging me to recycle. In essence, further proof that our university is turning into Brown.
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Since hundreds of you stormed out of your rooms onto Locust Walk as soon as the prediction was made (and since you clearly rely on this blog for all your election news), here are the speeches you may have missed from both candidates Tuesday night:
Barack Obama
John McCain
Is it just us or has Locust Walk resembled an archeaological dig over the past few weeks? Seemingly every day a new section of the walk is cordoned off and dug up.
So what’s the deal? Is President Gutmann searching for Joseph Wharton’s hidden gold bullion? Did Shia LaBeouf enjoy filming Transformers 2 so much that he’s decided to come back to campus and film a sequel to Holes? Is there some sort of…sewage problem? Yeah, it’s probably the last one.
If you were anywhere near the Compass while you hustling to get to DRL before noon, you likely noticed the mob of people pummeling each other with pillows. Needless to say, I was there, camera in hand, watching the chaos (oh, the things one does for journalism).
More clips and some context to the hostilities, after the jump.
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