It all began as a naive attempt to unveil the Penn experience from within. Five editors and a lone photographer immersed themselves in a bar crawl along the edges of campus--observing, writing, drinking, observing, drinking, writing, drinking and drinking--with the belief that when morning came around their notes would be insightful, if decipherable. But as the rainy evening crept on and the beer sank to the bottom of their bellies, their work's desperate nature pierced their spirits.
In reproducing the random and disjunct thoughts of the night, themes evolved from notebook scribbles and fell into place within a collage of in-the-moment impressions and drunken ruminations. The overwhelming depravity of Penn's social scene became all too apparent when private attitudes, bathroom musings, ever changing and often conflicting atmospheres and the futile yearning for personal relationships fashioned the evening's discourse.
And so, the journey unfolds...
Melancholy attitudes atop a lonely barstool
...It's 6:45. I think I should go. I was supposed to meet up with the guys about a half an hour ago, but I have been putting it off for just a short while on purpose. I am kind of freaked out. I just got back to campus yesterday. I walk up Spruce Street. I am trying to stand up straight, with good posture. I have read that it is a good way to give people a positive impression when you meet them. I want to radiate positive energy. It's like a clean shirt, an attitude. I put them both on.
10:45 p.m., New Deck
Its all about attitude here. Confidence. Posture. Karaoke? Easy laughs. Yeah, this one is going to sing Billy Joel, right? Yeah, I know, that high part? Sing me a song, you're the piano man.
11:30 p.m., Billybob
This night has turned me into one of the boys--they don't watch what they say anymore. To my right, an avid discussion of tits. I'm suddenly reminded of the angry woman on SEPTA who said, "There are no more goddamned gentlemen in this world!" The boys continue to discuss the merits of the bartender's too-perky rack. I silently give them a demerit.
6:36 p.m., Mad 4 Mex
I'm the only one smoking. I smoke so that I have neither to drink nor talk. I've had half a margarita and the chip helpings are not sufficiently ample.
9:10 p.m., New Deck
I don't want to drink anymore. My tummy hurts.
1:15 a.m., Smoke's
Smoke's, Smoke's, Smoke's. I've never heard anyone talk so much shit about a bar before and then still show up night after night. Is it cool to trash the place you're about to show up at? Smokes has a certain comfort to it, in that there won't be many freshman there and you can find plenty of people to talk to, but at the same time--my God, people, lose that bullshit persona. Who are you still trying to prove yourselves to? Still trying to get into Friars? Ha.
7:34 p.m., Mad 4 Mex
I can't get a drink here. I never can get a drink here. It's not even busy. It's dead. I feel sort of distant. I have yet to loosen up. There is chatter around me, very friendly. Talk of summers, jobs, the standard fare. I don't think I can really chat it up until I have a few drinks. That's usually the way it goes for me. Just a few beers and then I will talk your damn ear off.
W/C
1:30 a.m., Smoke's
There is a preening bathroom culture I join for a reapplication of lip-gloss and powder. The space is too small--a women's bathroom should always be more expansive. This one isn't even clean, and there are no paper towels. One girl stands before the mirror reapplying substance after substance from popsicle-colored tubes. She will have sweated it all off, except for the waterproof mascara, within 10 minutes of reuniting with her crew.
8:03 p.m., La Terrasse
Do you talk to someone in the bathroom when you're both on the shitter or not? If you know them. What are the rules? How does one initiate conversation? Is there a right time in the shitting process to talk, or is it just a case of going about your business and pretending like you don't know the person next to you? Why does it feel so uncomfortable?
8:45 p.m., New Deck
You look down at the bowl and everything comes into focus for a second. You are relieved as everything emotional and alcoholic pours out of your penis--It's a calming feeling that puts things into perspective for the moment until your bladder is drained and the walk up the stairs begins. At this point, vision swims while the tranquility and clarity are forgotten.
Fabricated worlds and illusory havens
6:02 p.m., Mad 4 Mex
People keep walking in with disappointed looks on their faces. Where are all the rest of the people? It's funny how the atmosphere of the bar mirrors the weather. It's gloomy outside; it's dull inside.
9:30 p.m., New Deck
Mostly an older crowd, in twos and threes at the scratched bar. Odd groupings of two guys and one girl sit on either side of me. This is quite not a singles scene--remind me not to come here alone again. Oh wait, I'm not alone. I'm with five guys now. Our group's gender distribution reflects the gender distribution of the entire bar. For every five guys, there is one girl. And I don't wonder why, considering the layer of cracked peanut shells on the floor and Phillies highlights on the tube.
7:12 p.m., La Terrasse
Better lighting in here, softer yellow, flattering, and the music aids digestion of liquor, food. People are feeling sophisticated here... yeah, that's what this place is trying to be. At least no one is shouting to be heard by no one. Lots of girls in capri pants and boys with collars. They should be dog collars, but any collar will do. The bartender, who some know by name, serves the brew in stemmed glasses, and so I sip.
8.55 p.m., New Deck
Different crowd, less pretentious. But I'm still bored. The atmosphere isn't doing it for me. I'm neither sober nor drunk. We almost abandoned ship, as a group, 10 minutes ago. Perhaps we should have.
7:41 p.m., La Terrasse
It's dark in here. I can't see my food. All the guys to my left are pricks. The music is bad house music.
10:30 p.m., New Deck
New Deck still????? There is karaoke now--someone is singing karaoke. Karaoke, the worst invention ever. Ever. Someone tell that girl she's not in the shower! This crowd's not into it anyway, not drunk enough, or unabashed enough. The girl's getting no kind of support for her twisted rendition of the Dawson's Creek theme song. Ow. Stop. Ow. Please. Please.
People who suck, people who don't and one bartender's breasts
11:25 p.m., Billybob
The bartender has a great rack. She's the definition of a "but-her-face." She doesn't realize why guys like her and pay her attention. She has that look on her face of "I love my job, everyone's so nice to me." Or maybe she's smarter than she looks and she's playing the crowd, consciously using what she's got to make a buck.
1:10 a.m., Smoke's
Wow... It's really amusing how someone who knows you can start coming towards you, then decides to turn around, walk around the entire bar (literally) to see who else they know before deciding it's OK to talk to you. That's really sad when you're embarrassed about your friends. I don't care that he's like that at all--it says a lot more about him than me. The thing I love the most is that he's surprised when I opt not to let myself be engrossed in a conversation with him. Fuck you. If you decide to walk around the whole bar before coming up to me, get fucking lost. Don't talk to me, you tosspot. Talking to you is a waste of oxygen.
6:12 p.m., Mad 4 Mex
I'm not sure anyone one wants to be here, either in our group or in any other. We're all looking for someone else, and there is no one else, not at this hour. The tinted windows and dirty yellow light they lend creep me out, as does the empty bar. My margarita, frozen, tastes of cheap tequila and McDonald's strawberry jam. Yuck. A group of 10 girls comes in, still wearing their bathing suits beneath halter tops and shorts--they must be tan but in this light they are red, orange, yellow. I know two of them well, and more of them in passing. I say "in passing" because they see me and pass on by. I can't even befriend them by association. But they're not bitches, they just don't ever smile or say hi. I am relieved to know two of them. Then, when the hi-how-was-your-summers are over I'm bored. I scan the walls and they are bare, uninteresting, nothing to look at, not even any boys. This is not a happy happy hour.
1:30 a.m., Smoke's
Finally!!! There are people here now, the usual. It is what they say, an all upperclassmen, really expensive fraternity party, but in a bar. It's no longer acceptable to be socializing, hitting on people, in dirty, roach-infested houses. Now that we're 21, it's dirty, roach-infested bars. But it is really no different from a fraternity party because people are overdressed, as if they hoped to be going elsewhere, someplace respectable downtown where kitten heels might not end up coated in french-fry and beer muck. But I think it's fun, good people-watching from over the rim of a plastic cup. No matter what one requests one receives some form of Yuengling. So I'm drinking Yuengling. People talk to people who know people and everyone has a sweaty glow from the heat and the crowd... Can't really have a conversation at all, but a hello is enough this late at night.
And so we retired to our homes or ran into familiar people in familiar places. Some of us went to bed and others collapsed on the couch to smoke a bowl. We wondered why the night could not have been better--why we failed so thoroughly at solidarity and creating a good time. While our failure certainly was a reflection of a horrendous bar scene, finding the Penn experience through a bar crawl had always been an impossible task. There is no single experience for everyone, and it certainly doesn't involve wandering from bar to bar, or rather, striding along Beige Block on a Friday night, or instead, flowing into Smoke's as an expected end to an evening. Any shared experience is polluted by the personal attitudes and perceptions that we cannot escape and are forced to carry with us. And so, when these private beliefs are imposed on a contrived environment, like the suave aura of La Terrasse or the brotherhood of Smoke's, individuality must succumb to an alcoholic stupor and friendships must be reduced to worthless conversations. If we resist such desperation, like these six tried to do, the only alternative is to yield to the failure of the experience...
"Close the mouth there, boy, and look at the street. Head down. It feels more natural like that anyway."
--12:45 a.m., Spruce Street.
