Anybody planning on "having the craziest, most over-the-top 21st birthday party ever!" would do well to check out MTV.
The network is looking for participants for the (I'm sure) highly poignant and provocative series My Super Sweet 21 in towns including State College. Now, instead of just your closest friends, the entire country will have the opportunity to enjoy the time when you walked up to the police officer with your shirt on backward asking for directions to Taco Bell.
Why do we love these stories? Why do we share last night's hilarity with everyone within earshot? For that matter, why is it hilarious in the first place? And where's the line between a night of triumphant Dionysian partying and an embarrassing incident we're going to have a tough time living down?
Let's consider this hypothetically, shall we?
First we have a young man named Bob. Bob is your average Penn State student who enjoys a few drinks on the weekends. Tonight, Bob is out with a number of good friends. With a little bit of encouragement and a trip to the ATM, Bob manages to down 17 shots, three beers and half of some girl's Cosmopolitan. A full evening.
Second, meet another young man named Zeppo. Zeppo is another average Penn State student, and also enjoys a few drinks from time to time. Zeppo's also out with friends. Time passes, rounds are downed, some karaoke happens. Four hours later, and Zeppo, like Bob, has polished off 17 shots, three beers and half of some girl's Appletini.
But, unlike Bob, Zeppo's story doesn't end there. Unfortunately, Zeppo gets turned around a few times on the way home. The next thing he remembers, it's 9 a.m., and he's in a tool shed in Boalsburg holding a garden gnome in one hand and a spatula in the other.
Zeppo has some things to figure out.
The epilogue to these stories comes that evening at the dining hall. Bob's pals speak in reverent tones of his feat -- seriously, 17 shots. Zeppo's, however, have been passed on the story from his roommate, and are sharing a light-hearted laugh at the poor boy's fate. Doesn't know his limit, that Zeppo. Have to walk him home next time.
Other than an over-the-top moniker, there's not much difference between these evenings. A slight change of circumstance changes a pillow to a garden gnome. And yet, one of our hypothetical undergraduates is reverently praised, while another is gently mocked.
The college town culture is, by nature, one of excess. Everything is a little bit bigger and little bit longer than it is elsewhere, from stadiums to sandwiches to semesters spent chasing that Bachelor's degree. We're Americans in college. We're going to drink. We're going to make clowns of ourselves. We're going to frantically chant one of two football slogans 11 months out of the year. This is what we do, and let's be honest -- as long as you're the one taking part in the revels, it's a good time.
Unfortunately, it's not just a culture of excess. It's a culture of extra excess. For whatever reason, we spend our time trying to be more impressively outlandish than everybody else. We need to drink more, scream louder and fall harder than all of our friends. And if we slack off in our efforts, those friends are right there to hand us the next drink or hold that beer bong in the air.
This taking it to the next level isn't helping anybody. What do you get by telling your buddy to drink that next Jack and Coke? An increased chance that you'll spend 10 minutes hovering over him hovering over the toilet, repeating "You're OK, you're OK, that's good, you're doing great."
With all due respect to those who have been injured or worse due to poor party decisions, hey -- if you're going to go to extremes, this is your time to do it. Get plastered, dance on the table, fall into a bush, get confused Sunday morning about where your cell phone/pants/dignity might be hiding.
Still, no one needs to be the one everybody's talking about the next day, whether they're laughing or not. No mammoth keg stand can possibly inflate your social standing that much. And as much as you try to smile it off, it doesn't feel good to be the funny story going around the dinner table.
Speaking of 21st birthdays, mine was yesterday. An evening spent with a few close friends and a few Monkey Boys has passed, and with any luck, I woke up this morning safe in my own bed, and not on the Old Main lawn.
If I am on the Old Main lawn, though, please wake me up and make me read this column.
