Tier's to You, Kid!
By TIERNEY PLUMB
The brick building on 1917 Princess Anne St. has changed its name more times than our institution, but what remains consistent is the ostentatious behavior and gaudy dress every “Houston’s” event calls for.
Tonight is the Mardi Gras 2007 bash sponsored by Psi U. Kudos to a group of young men who can successfully round up roughly 1/5 of our student body under one roof.
This time, there will be even more student bodies on the dance floor–since the new rule is that locals can’t purchase a ticket at the door.
But the fashionably late entrance through the stained glass door doesn’t mark the beginning of the event–hype does.
The painted rock exclaiming the event at the beginning of the work week suddenly makes Monday’s walk to biology a bit better, and outfit choices are the leading topic of friends’ conversations at the Nest.
I admittedly spent two hours curling my hair for the Mardi Gras 2005 bash. Those hours should have been spent getting work done for Friday’s classes, since the moment you pull your friend on the dance floor at the sound of “Sexy Back,” a Shirley Temple ‘do transforms into a Diana Ross ‘fro.
Full-to-the-brim drafts cost $1, but expect to have 25 cents on your shirt by the time the drink reaches your mouth, thanks to thrashing arms behind and around you. The floor on the bar is not runway-friendly, and wearing three-inch stilettos for the Iced Out Party caused me to ice skate and fall on spilt beer.
Sometimes a boy will knock you head over heels—but mostly it’s just poor balance. The pool tables aren’t chairs and a slip off their plastic covering will end your flirtatious conversation.
Take Lloyd Christmas’ advice on this one and sit at the bar and put out the vibe. But be careful–with such close proximity comes expenditures.
After digging through my purse one Friday morning and finding a $45 bar tab–for rounds of Lemon Drops and Bud Lights bought for both guy and gal pals–I vowed to never again bring a credit card.
I hide cash and ID in some sort of reachable outlet other than a purse (they are obtrusive on the dance floor), and I learned to keep coats in the car.
One Halloween I lost my roommate’s coat, so I gave her the coat off my back, literally. That was a cold winter.
At the end of the night when the DJ announces “let there be light,” students scramble into pairs as if they’re boarding Noah’s Ark and it is evident who is going home with whom.
As a wise senior once said, “If you can’t make out at Houston’s, where can you make out?” But remember: lip-locking on the dance floor is a far more desirable thing than rolling over to a beaded broad in bed the next morning.
The transportation back to campus is efficient, and as a senior I used the bus in order to return from the Luau. (My roommate “sprained” her ankle and the Seaco bus gave us door-to-door service home.)
Even playing DD is part of the Houston’s experience. I sacrificed attendance to a Halloween party two years ago in order to study for a geography midterm, and I picked up the entire cast of Gilligan’s Island.
Chances are there’s a friend studying in Randolph Hall lounge, so make the call if you are stuck. Never make the mistake of one brave senior. As legend has it, he trekked it home last year seven miles in the snow.