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October 07, 2004 - Image 17

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Publication:
The Michigan Daily, 2004-10-07

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14B - The Michigan Daily - Thursday, October 7, 2004
this week in crunklwith Evan McGarvey
PARTY FOR YOUR RIGHT TO FIGHT AND PARTY

The Michigan

auto-neurotic with Alexandra Jones
I'VE GOT A PAPER TO WRITE

In the years of the most abun-
dant energy, most of us are
seeking to maximize the ways
4n which we "chill." The passion-
ate, the wild and the rowdy are
all treated with equal levels of
ridicule and disdain. Scaling the
social ladder in your sphere of
influence is no harder than doing
all of the easiest tasks around you
and staying crunk at all times.
Sadly, this blase attitude seems
to have trickled down to our pre-
¬ęcious, precious party scene here at
the University.
Now correct me if I'm wrong,
but isn't the entire point of party-
ing to escape the restraint, the
intellectualization and to retreat
into the sublime haze of the week-
end? Then why in polly-wanna-

crunker would you ever hold
yourself back?
On the party scene these past
two weeks (and I hit the party
hard, much like a crazy, random
avalanche) I've noticed this dis-
turbing trend of lackadaisical
partying. Ideally you'd like to
have all of your parties located
somewhere near Crunkelvania
(it's right next to the Chocolate
Factory and the 36 Chambers),
and they'd get started around mid-
night.
Trust me - I was in Barcelona,
Spain for Christmas last year
- all the best European parties
start late, and everyone is well-
dressed, bitter, and just emerging
from the cloud of fascism. Their
parties rule.

Along with the late starting
hour, you want a completely ran-
dom and borderline unruly bunch
of people to make up your throw
down roster. As a descendent of
generations of Irish rebels and
freedom fighters, I know trouble
from about a peat bog away. My
frequent party companions include
Punit "Straight Outta Ka$hmir"
Mattoo who brings style, armed
rebellion and this awesome lamb
and rice dish to almost every
party we grace.
Being two sons of war-torn
nations, we know the best way to
achieve peace and understanding is
to cause as much havoc as possible.
If needed, use liberal amounts
of crunk juice and screaming to
accomplish your goals.

Since wild parties are our goal,
and Ann Arbor is located nowhere
near Crunkelvania, we must do
our best to locate the finest par-
ties in our fair city. First off, as
much as I loved patterned cloth-
ing and exclusionary tactics, most
Greek life events are really for
those within the system. For us
outsiders, I'd just say look for
where the cops are headed and
follow them. They always know
whurr the "illest" parties in town
are jumping off.
Go by these general rules of
thumb: If everyone is sitting
around listening to music you've
heard before, leave. You are way
cooler than them. If you're the
ugliest person there, stay. You
must have a super personality!

And remember, above all else,
look for marching band parties.
They have the very passion you
and all wannabe crunkateers
should emulate. They're skilled,
artistic and they have hats with
plumes. While they aren't elitist
music critics or self-absorbed col-
umnists, they did play really lame
80's cock rock and make it seem
cool.
Screw it, I'm going to the trum-
pet party. No, you can't come.
Evan likes to party with the Ann
Arbor Police Department. If you know
of a party that's bound to get busted
at some point in the evening, he wants
to know about it. To point Evan in the
direction of crunk on campus, e-mail
him at evanbmg@umich.edu.

- K

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's two-something (:08?) Monday
morning. I'm writing an English paper.
The roommate and the boyfriend are
both smoking cigarettes. I'm in the front
room and "Family Guy" is on. My room-
mate is studying and my boyfriend isn't
doing anything. The smoke makes me feel
even more tired, but it's too cold for them
to sit out on the fire escape, so it's OK.
I keep getting distracted. This is being
written in the blue spiral notebook I used
for Philosophy 202 last semester. What a
God-awful waste of time that was.
The assignment (for English 325, if
you're interested) consists of presenting
an old essay and placing it in the context
in which it was written, like a documen-
tarian dealing with archival footage.
When I first thought about the assign-
ment, I froze up. My rough draft was
absolute trash.
I guess the difficulty lay in the back-
wards-looking process. Because whenev-
er that happens, you realize how you didn't
go anywhere or progress or even change
at all: you're in the same spot and the only
difference is the stuff around you. Dorm
room becomes apartment, crazy bitch
roommate becomes nice roommate who
wears too much makeup and works at
Victoria's Secret. Enthusiasm wears thin,
becoming disgust and dead-eyed exhaus-
tion. I still write papers the same way.
Lauren goes to bed. If I'm done by
four, I'll be thrilled.
I'm buzzing around town Sunday after-
noon. It's too cold for just a turtleneck but
it's sunny, and I'm rushing around so I'm
sweating. Pissed off and busy. I've got a
performance in an hour and a half and I
can't miss the bus and I need to eat some-
thing and buy that new Sam Cooke com-

pilation - I start to think and can't stop. I
already know that I'm screwed. Octubaf-
est performance at 3 p.m., work right after
that until 11:30, home by 12:30, start the
paper after the second showing of " The
Daily Show" at 1.I know I'm terrible, dis-
organized, unprepared - so I rationalize.
I don't need anyone's help to write this
paper. Approval, validation of my ideas
from somewhere outside - screw it.
Three-something Monday morning.
Shaun's gone to bed, but I can hear him
sniffling and the light is still on. The
kitchen faucet is dripping really loudly. I
still haven't figured out where the thermo-
stat is in this damn apartment.
On Saturday I ate brunch and went
shopping - I'm not exactly the type, so
it's sort of weird to see it in writing like
that - then cleaned and fully (finally)
unpacked my fucking ridiculous room
and thought about the assignment. Since I
didn't want to end up with senseless pseu-
do-intellectual vomit like I did with my
first draft, I decide to think up a genuinely
sweet angle from which to approach this
bullshit.
It would have been perfect. While
searching for an interesting idea to the
assignment, I hit on a great time-sav-
ing idea that'd give me content without
so much work: My old e-mails from the
original paper's approximate time period
could be used, cut and pasted together to
create the context. I'd have real-life docu-
mentation of the behavior I still exhibit
in situations like this - procrastination,
insecurity, dependence. My sent-mail
folder, though, held nothing from before
November of 2003. 1 had deleted every-
thing before then. I called an old writ-
ing-oriented friend with whom I had

corresponded to ask for help, but so had
she. "That's so meta," she said with a ver-
bal sneer when I told her about it. She's
right, too. Fucking pretentious-ass shit.
Sunday afternoon. Get to the bus stop
and try to calm down. I need to focus and
chill out and quit wanting a goddamn cig-
arette, you're about to perform, for Chris-
sakes. That's what's different: I smoke
now. And at some point last year my ass
started looking pretty good.
Saturday night, 1-ish in the a.m. I've
just arrived home from the post-Octubaf-
est gathering and am considerably gin-
soaked. I put on the green dress I bought
that morning, the one with cap sleeves
and the buttons that snake down the front.
For some reason it's imperative to Rachel
and Alaina that they come over, although
I have no booze and no food and don't
really feel like talking. Lauren left her
cigarettes by the window - she got the
walk-in closet, I got the fire escape - and
they both take one. I do too. Popcorn is
made and Rachel starts blathering about
Salinger. I shove my copy of Nine Sto-
ries into her hands and go sit on my bed
while she tries to fit it into the pocket of

her orange suede trench coat. She asks fo
a sweater, too, since her jacket sucks fo
warmth.
Alaina grabs her guitar (Shaun bor
rowed it) and plays the one chord she
knows (D, I think). Rachel, a lapsed voca
major, proclaims that we should start an
avant-garde ensemble, so I grab the koala
bear tambourine a friend sent me fron
Scotland this summer. Rachel picks up
whatever she can find -- a bottle of KY
Ultra Gel, an empty pack of cigarettes
- and makes noise. This is all happening
on top of Madonna's "Lucky Star." We
sound really great.
At some point Rachel smears KY al
over the tambourine and I sort of qui
thinking about what's going on in the
room. My bag is near the end of the bed
so I lean over and grab my little red note
book out of it. This would be fucking
great for my paper, I think, utterly delud
ed. I try to write a sentence, but even ir
my condition I know it'll be pretty much
illegible. "Rachel, in my sweater, hunches
over in the chair near the window." That's
all I can make out.
Alex did her paper on time, and even
finished adapting itfor her column 17 min
utes before deadline. Recommend self-help
books to her by e-mailing almajoCdumich
edu

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