Hi folks, your friendly nightlife blogger here. You may remember me (not likely) from my witty news commentary in the aptly named "It's News to Me" copy desk blog. Well, I'm moving on and lowering my IQ points by writing about my crazy, legal exploits in this weird fantasy land known as State College.

I thought it would be an ironic twist to make this inaugural blog post, the first time it has been written by a 21-year-old since 2006, about me acting unabashedly like a freshman.

I don't know what it is, but the first weekend back from a long break makes me want nothing more than to reconnect with all my friends and get schwasty at yet another unremarkable apartment party. Perhaps it's me unconsciously trying to disconnect myself from the trappings of the real world by regressing into the most stereotypical of college experiences. Who knows.

It all started, like so many of my poor decisions do, at my friend's pad. His place is one of those residences that is never occupied solely by the people paying the rent -- there are always extra guests. So naturally that's where I went after a string of meetings yesterday and a short love affair with my couch.

Thing is, it went quite well for a while. I brought along a few of the only things left in my fridge, which included two Lion's Heads and a Yuengling. I'm known for toting along my own stash, so of course I couldn't disappoint. It started out innocently enough. I downed the Yuengling and ignored the "beer before liquor" rule by moving on to an all-time favorite of mine, the rum and diet. This, too, was relatively innocent, as I'm not really a lightweight.

However, it did lead me to talk louder, faster and more passionately about my former stint as copy chief. That's the problem with partying with your work friends -- you end up never really leaving the office.

Anyway, I believe a few ill-fated card games lead me down the treacherous path to becoming a "wasterson," as my roommate puts it. The clincher, though, (and I really should have known better) was playing mixed-drink pong. The last time I attempted this I ended up drinking until 8 a.m., rescuing a friend who accidentally walked to Nittany Beverage, tagging along to watch a trial and staying up for 36 hours straight. So the precedent was hard to beat.

Anyway, this game ended with a bit less insanity, as I somehow ended up back at my apartment and inviting my equally tipsy friend to sleep on my couch.

The best part of this experience was waking up to find my oven on at 500 degrees and the entirety of my food products strewn across my kitchen. My friend didn't do it and neither did I, adding further support to my maniacal-elves-live-in-my-building theory.

With a nagging headache to remind me of my foolishness, I write this blog after my first stressful day on the job. I'd like to point out that I don't necessarily make a habit of getting crunk, but I am quite the authority on the local bar scene and various insights into our tipsy little world of nightlife.

After all, you don't need alcohol to have fun, but it sure does make everything funnier.

So this weekend I decided to be a good nightlife blogger and go out and experience the State College scene -- namely, the grand opening of the town's newest hot spot, Indigo. Indigo recently replaced Players Nite Club, 112 W. College Ave., whose name someone wisely decided evokes a definite creeper vibe.

The genius thing about its re-birth as Indigo, however, is that the club itself hasn't really changed. For one, it simply replaced the word "Players" with "Indigo" on the sign accompanied by the same weird little shooting star. Inside, a new coat of green and blue on the walls is one of the two noticeable changes. The other? Female staff members sporting sexy schoolgirl attire that would make a prepubescent Britney proud. Awesome.

The great thing about all this is that it was an excellent business decision. People were arriving in droves, completely undeterred by a $3 cover charge sans live entertainment. Even my friend and I, besides an altruistic urge to investigate, were lured in by the prospect of a new venue.

Unfortunately, we were too late for their $1 mixed drink specials we kept hearing about, a disconcerting fact given the old club used to have the same specials, which includes the smallest glass ever used to hold liquor outside a shot glass. You'd think their grand re-opening would at least extend the special all night.

Anyway, aside from a few unwanted passes, a nice cozy spot at the bar assured us better-than-average service all night. Even if we were too chatty to indulge in the dance floor, the expensive Players-in-Indigo clothing still allowed us a fun Thursday night.

To recap the rest of my rather uneventful weekend, let me just say that I ...

1. Came home one night in a very large vest made of duct tape
2. Made cheese and garlic biscuits at 5 a.m.
3. Watched at least two seasons of America's Next Top Model
4. Trekked across a frozen tundra to watch Mean Girls with a clique of my own
5. Sang Enrique Iglesias at the top of my lungs
6. Found a stuffed bear dressed as an Indian on my first-floor balcony
7. Was yelled at by a girl on my floor about leaving flip flops in the hallway
8. Heard my friend accuse another friend of "making a childish" out of him
9. Attempted to combine Peppermint Schnapps with Coke (which resulted in carbonated mouthwash)
10. And, lastly, tested my new knee-high black leather boots (which resulted in blisters)

That's all for now, folks. Keep it real.

The Gingerbread Man, 130 Heister St., has a bad rap as a "frat bar," and a rather boring joint when it comes to nightlife. But on my first (yes, first) visit there this weekend, however, I'm not sure what all the negativity is about.

Sure, the place was sparsely populated until about 11:30 and some of the patrons' raucous conversations and dance moves were hard to ignore, but I can't really hate on a place with good wait service and bar food that doesn't prematurely induce vomit. And what better way to wash down a couple of tasty $1 mixed drinks than with a slice of pizza on a classy ceramic plate?

Aside from the satisfactory food/drink combinations, the bar's real redeeming quality was the visual assault that made up the "entertainment." One giant TV mirrored the same, loud program as multiple small ones. And what was it, exactly? I'd say the most schizophrenic combination of music videos ever.

It first caught my eye when I saw Olivia Newton John's '80s classic, "Let's Get Physical," complete with sweatbands, spandex, feathered bangs and a fat man on a treadmill. I will never look at Grease the same way again.

The '80s theme continued with some of my favorite party songs being played out in a rather disturbing manner. Take, for example, Eric Prydz's "Call on Me," whose video is nothing more than a workout class set to the tune of soft-core porn. I'm talking thrusting, bending and otherwise moving in outfits that should never be worn by a human being again. I think my friend said it best when she remarked, "It's T and A, and I love it."

After a couple more innocuous videos came a truly classic Eminem and Nate Dogg video, "Shake That," which scarred my view of animated characters forever more.
Whatever, the pizza was still good.

Anyway, I tell you all this to juxtapose it against an old favorite of mine, Café 210, 210 W. College Ave., which didn't exactly live up to expectations this weekend.

First I was confronted with a $3 cover charge for live entertainment I'm not sure actually existed. I'd be happy to pay that for the awesome ambiance it has with outside seating in the warm months, but not the impersonal indoor atmosphere any other time.

And yes, I did get a Jack and Coke pitcher for a mere $5.25, but this was eclipsed by the bar's inexplicable decision to make last call at 1:15 a.m. I think my friend was about to commit a felony with a blunt force object when she heard this.

And people ask why a few of my editor friends and I used to frequent Sports Café, 244 W. College Ave., after putting the paper to bed for a few wind-down drinks last semester. It's mostly because they understood the concept of a 2 a.m. closing time, announcing last call just 10 minutes before and letting us finish until a quarter after. Some of us can't afford to start drinking at 9 p.m. on a weeknight, for goodness sakes. R.I.P., Sports Café, R.I.P. And keep dancing, Olivia.