Certainly I miss living with my roommates the most, but I often find myself pining for the accepted practice of wearing sweatpants a majority of the week, a license for brash irresponsibility, and the ability to drink on whatever day one pleases.
A holdover I particularly yearn for is the art of the House Party. Nine times out of ten, I much prefer suburban bacchanalia to the crowded, expensive bars teeming with graphic-teed Ids and newly 21 year-old girls in birthday tiaras whose night will soon include fishing their Blackberries out of a toilet, and crying.
Some of my favorite memories from college are the parties we threw in our townhouse. The greatest hits include the three piece band we squeezed into our miniature living room, the highlighter party where our white shirts were filled with fluorescent ink before any other guests had arrived, our homage to the first Thanksgiving with authentic costumes from a local party store, and the affectionately titled "Gay Christmas," where my roommates and I donned Walmart-purchased yuletide turtlenecks, decorated our house, gift-wrapped beer cans, and got drunk to celebrate the birth of Jesus.
Those moments will forever hold a sacred place in my heart, so when Nate was extended an invitation to a party at the apartment of attractive USC girls, I went in search of something to wear.
Located off Divisadero, we arrived early and pleasantries were exchanged. Our 'in' was with Nate's friend, who knew the house owner. I made sure to put on my best small-town-New-Hampshire-boy face as I introduced myself to the six girls living there.
This was shaping up to be an excellent night.
Following many years of academia and the last two teaching children, I now have a better understanding that human brains are wired differently. Some people have formulas tattooed to their cerebrum and can compute onerous math problems almost instantaneously, others possess the patience and occasional joy to create grammatically precise, well-structured blocks of sentences replete with ornate imagery and heady concepts.
I would assert, however, that most people with any kind of diploma have taken some remedial geography lessons at some point in their existence.
That being said, I spent an inordinate amount of time constructing the state collective of New England to a cute girl from Oregon using various snacks I found on the kitchen counter.
"I mean, I know where your state is," I remarked, trying not to sound defensive as I positioned the Connecticut granola bar. Now, I'll be the first to admit difficulty in pointing out, say, Azerbaijan, but I was astonished how much trouble she had locating states in her own country despite 16 years of continuous education. I arranged, then rearranged the food items and quizzed her several times. After a while, she finally seemed to get it.
"Um, Rhode Island!" she said gleefully, grabbing the half-eaten bag of organic trail mix. I nodded my head in approval, pleased by my newest student.
I don't mean to attribute her deficiency to the entire Oregonian school system, but I do think something, albeit slight, could be connected to the varying coastal cultures; something in the air slowly coercing people out there to become warmheartedly aloof.
As it turns out, life is fairly different here than in, say, Wisconsin, Maryland, or New Hampshire.
For starters, the governor of California was at one time Conan the Barbarian. The governor in the state I currently live is simply a man named Deval, and to my knowledge he possesses no medieval weapons or rippling, oily biceps. That alone makes California that much more badass than the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. On closer inspection, I notice these people dress in comfortable clothing a large portion of the calendar year, use diction such as 'hella' and 'rad', and even value sports alien to the finicky climate of the Right Coast.
I've been fortunate enough to travel an ample amount in Europe and around the country, but ultimately my entire existence has been on the east coast. In that time, I surmised life out here consists primarily of brushing snow off vehicles, cursing with vapory breath at an engine that struggles to turn over, and yearning, with much impatience, for spring.
Climate notwithstanding, wherever you travel in this country, there will always exist the three behemoths of organized sport: football, basketball, and baseball. They have ruled the roost for some time now and will continue to do so probably for the rest of eternity. Soccer, which I played growing up, is certainly popular throughout the world, but still not completely accepted nationwide. In no way does it tip-toe the fringe like motocross or lumberjack sports, but it still has a ways to go, and not without competition.
Nowadays, there have been signs that America's favorite past-time could become a foresaken sport. In certain areas of the country (e.g. the east coast) more and more kids are shelving the glove and bat and trading it in for the supremely Waspy lacrosse stick, thus spawning generations to come of helmet-haired, pinny-wearing goons.
What I found interesting is that the prominent west coast sport of choice is more often than not water polo. Between the sporting circles that I frequent and my baseball-playing college roommates, water polo is never mentioned and likely considered foreign and confusing by a majority of Americans, especially to those who devote entire weekends to Nascar events, or who have never heard of the WNBA.
A college friend of Chris, Nate's roommate, who looks more like a linebacker for the 49ers, was in fact a former D-1 water polo player. After spending some time with him and hearing colorful stories about random bar altercations, I deemed it best not to wisecrack that his college career was spent treading water in a lukewarm pool all the while wrestling a ball away from other damp, shirtless men.
If you ever do catch a water polo match, you'll see it resembles a frenzied, waterlogged game of rugby, where its participants frequently suffer head trauma, broken noses, and muscle injuries.
Following the impromptu geography lesson, the cute Oregonian likely tired of my pathetic kitchen prop comedy and moved on to other groups of people. The party continued and as dude after dude filed into the claustrophobic house, the scene turned into something more resembling a George Michael concert than an ostensibly mixed-gender soiree.
The room temperature and noise level rose quickly as I established myself on the counter with a handful of beers. The area where we initially settled was immediately swarmed with loud, sweaty people sucking down alcohol. Movement became reserved solely for bathroom breaks and the occasional refill.
Luckily, Siena was small enough so there was no Greek life, save for one business fraternity whose members seemed diametrically opposed to anything raucous or fun. I don't think I missed out on that aspect of college because the more I hear about them or witness the shenanigans of the graduated brothers, the less I like. The kitchen became a hub of commotion and as I engaged in deafening conversation with people standing a foot away, the chanting began:
"SHOW ME YOUR DICK!"
"BENIHANA! NOOO DRAMA!"
"MAKE OUT--MAKE OUT--MAKE OUT!"
The one-time house party was now an audition for "Van Wilder 3."
For the first time in adulthood, I came face-to-face with former fraternity members who looked exactly how I picture former fraternity members: red-faced, khaki-clad, man-children who were more interested in shouting non sequiturs at high decibel levels than following conventional norms. The vibe promptly turned to one where I felt I had to funnel a beer, strip to my underwear, and start doing pushups.
The ultimate surprise came when I heard that one of the chant originators was actually getting married soon. I imagined the scene at the wedding and immediately felt sorrow for the waitstaff.
With the geographically ignorant yet college educated girl from Oregon and the influx of men who never truly parted ways with the frat house, I suddenly felt like the small town New Hampshire boy I only intended to masquerade.
I was a stranger in a strange, noisy land.
After the beer inevitably vanished, we left in search of a bar. We vacated not only to find more alcohol, but to remove ourselves from the John Blutarskys on the hunt for bathtubs to shotgun in or unsuspecting victims to pants, their hands stinging and red from celebratory high-fives.
If anyone asked me later that night where I call home, I'd reply calmly: "East, I come from the east." And if they required further information, I'd excuse myself to the bathroom.
I thought of the cute Oregonian later telling a friend about some guy she met some night at some party who, just for her, arranged the New England states on a kitchen countertop.
"Wait, where's New Hampshire again?" her friend would ask.
"I don't remember," she'd say, "somewhere near Canada."
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