w v v w w v 0 9 9 w 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- «cious, 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 Winter & Spring Europe on Sale Bake in the Mediterranean sun. Check out the whirl in London and Amsterdam. Or if you can't wait 'til spring, ride the Alps this winter. Just be sure to buy a Student Airfare now during StudentUniverse.com's Autumn Europe Sale. Because airfares to Europe just don't get any cheaper than this. Roundtrip Student Airfares from Detroit to: 29O LONDON, PARIS, ROME FRANKFURT, MUNICH, AMSTERDAM Visit StudentUniverse.com for cheap Student Airfares on Lufthansa, United and the world's major carriers to Europe, and to more than 1,000 destinations in the US and around the world. '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. 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