OK, so I'm going to level with everyone: My weekend wasn't that interesting. But it got me thinking that even a satisfying, uninteresting weekend has certain things that "make it work," as Tim Gunn would say. So I've come up with a recipe for a perfect (or at least decent) weekend I thought I'd share with the group. Enjoy.

Ingredients:

Two 16 oz. extremely strong Long Island iced teas
One Mardi Gras mask found in the street
Ten guys you don't know in your apartment

4 1/2 square miles of icy terrain

Pinch of frustration

Two homemade White Russians
One ice scraper
One shopping trip

Six breakfast sandwiches
One rum and coke

One Dunkin' Donuts flatbread sandwich
Two loads of laundry

One shot of tequila

Pinch of embarrassment
One cup dance off
One gallon loud singing

Directions:

Start with two loads of laundry, fold in frustration over a period of two hours. For those cost-conscious, be prepared to spend at least $6.

Randomly throw in shot of tequila. Soak immediately in rum and coke and walk away to avoid guy who insisted upon this ingredient.

Add iced teas, mix well and garnish with three lemon wedges each. Talk louder and begin to gesticulate.

Proceed quickly to flatbread portion of process. Add to mix so quickly that you're not sure it ever existed.
Garnish with icy terrain and Mardi Gras mask. Feel foolish.

Let chill overnight, then refresh with icy terrain in the afternoon. Vigorously stir in ice scraper until crystals are melted. Sift in shopping trip and let simmer.

Pour in two White Russians and follow with breakfast sandwiches until a rough consistency is reached.

Combine previous concoction immediately the 10 random guys. Mix in loud singing and dance off to produce embarrassment. Top with cowboy hat.

Congratulations, you've made a Leslie weekend. Yield: awesomeness.

As I'm currently experiencing the joys of flu season, it's difficult for me to remember how much fun I had last weekend, particularly last night. I do, however, suspect that one of my dad's old quips has proven true: Too much fun will make you sick.

But free of body aches and ibuprofen last night, I was riding high. We started off at Tony's Big Easy, a place I had previously ignored but attracted my attention after a good friend started working there. It was really quite the phenomenon, though -- the bar was almost entirely empty upon our arrival at 10 p.m. Apparently that's normal for a Saturday around that time and the bar gets a bit busier around 11:30. It was just bizarre to see the cavernous nightspot, which I had patronized before alongside hefty crowds, appear as though it weren't open for business. But I digress.

The next watering hole we visited, after extensive slipping and sliding down Calder Way, was one of the first bars I frequented this summer after turning 21. Bar Bleu always takes a little getting used to when you descend the stairs to run into a very darkened, electrically blue bar. However, being greeted with fishbowls is never a bad surprise, and after ordering a fine concoction called Sweet Citrus, I was content to settle in the bar's larger room.

My favorite thing about Bar Bleu's main room is the colorful, blues-inspired wall décor. While it may sound rather unremarkable, the cool tones and murals mimicking everything from Picasso's Blue Period to cubism to quasi-Gaughin were quite a treat. It's fun to pretend something looks like Demoiselles d'Avignon, even if the artist never intended it.

But the best part of the night was hands-down the stupendous jazz music that had the small venue's occupants tapping their toes in appreciation. "Sideshow," as they were called, was anything but freakish and wowed the crowd with impassioned bass, saxophone and drum solos. Sipping a fruity drink just two feet from the wailing instruments was my little piece of heaven.

My last bar stop on Saturday must be mentioned simply because it couldn't be more different than Bar Bleu. I'd never been to the Darkhorse before, but was immediately awoken out of my jazz groove by an enthusiastic classic rock cover band. Add my favorite hometown-manufactured beer, Victory Hop Devil, my boyfriend's buddy dancing suggestively with a 50-something couple and my purchasing a shot that nearly finished the same friend, and you have a recipe for success. In case you were wondering, the shot is called "The Four Horsemen" and contains Gold tequila, Jägermeister, Rumple Minze and 151 proof rum. Best advice ever: DON'T TRY IT. As a whole, though, the Darkhorse experience was fun -- kind of like hanging out at an alcoholic high school dance with your hippie parents chaperoning.

Anyway, leaving out some key details to protect the innocent, those were the nightlifey highlights of my weekend. Until next week: Party hardy.

I'm just gonna throw this out there: I value my personal safety.

It's not that I shun all risk-taking, just activities that involve a decent risk of serious injury and/or major emotional trauma. Hence, I'm not a fan of contact sports and I stay away from the circus.

However, it turns out my love of bar-hopping might have to become one of these forbidden activities -- at least on one block in State College.

All it took was a fatal stabbing in what was formerly known as Club Love, now Lulu's Nightspot, 129 1/2 S. Pugh St., for me to never set foot in the place. Forget lightning striking twice; that's just bad karma going on in there.

I could not, however, steer clear of Tony's Big Easy, even though it has the same ownership, alleged liquor licensing trouble and a reputation so sterling it's also known as "The Sleaze."

But you know what? It's big, relatively clean and close to my West Beaver residence, and my good friend works there and swears it isn't that bad. Plus, I've had some really decent times there, including a spin at its stone-cold-sober salsa night.

However, when I happened upon Pugh Street this weekend, I wasn't entirely surprised to be confronted with a bevy of police cars. Our overbearing interrogation of an officer yielded nothing, but through the magic of a little thing we call police briefing, my reporter discovered I had stumbled upon the aftermath of a major disturbance.

I'm talking 200-plus people involved, four arrests and a lot of people threatening officers and bouncers. An offender escaping from police cruisers in handcuffs, backup from neighboring counties and an incident that smacks of past Beaver Canyon riots.

It's just one of several recent disturbances on the block, where apparently assaulting bar staff is all in a night's work. And as much fun as it seems to watch a fight when you're drunk, I've been too close to swinging punches and rioting crowds in my day (here's looking at you, Ohio State 2005) to not feel disturbed.

Alcohol and brawling have always gone hand in hand, but it's out of line when legal, law-abiding customers have to fear for their safety because some people can't control their caveman instincts.

We all know you hate authority figures, especially after a couple of shots. You're not original. And that guy did not spill a beer on you just to start something.

Be a real man -- or woman -- and get over it so I can finish my drink in peace.

I don't know if anyone noticed, but the largest student-run philanthropy in the world went on this weekend. I hear some people put themselves through willing sleep deprivation for 46 hours, and that it might've earned $6 million or something.

Thing is, I obviously know a little more than that because I had the dubious pleasure of being one of the editors on duty from midnight to 7 a.m. Sunday at the Bryce Jordan Center's press row.

Though I never did quite catch on to the line dance, it was beyond my human capabilities to keep from singing and dancing along to the many songs that were just asking for my sub-par accompaniment. That and a venti triple-shot latte and I was set.

When my fellow editor and I weren't reading and editing blogs and Web updates, singing was our amusement of choice. And I must say, the serenading was quite intense. I hazard to guess that we even put some of the colored visitor sections to shame.

I did, however, at one point find something so unique to do that it provided amusement for my Collegian friends and I for quite a while.

I was convinced I saw my friend on the edges of the BJC floor about 3:30 that morning, and having little else to do, set about trying to flag him down so that he might venture up to visit us. After occasional, half-hearted waving attempts, I gave up, but not without a last desperate attempt.

I sent, at exactly 3:49 a.m., perhaps the creepiest of all text messages: I CAN SEE YOU.

Problem is, my friend did not look up. Perhaps that's because he was at home in his apartment, nowhere near the BJC, and woke to find a text message that nearly caused him a heart attack.
Apparently he got over his initial chills and simply closed the blinds before going back to sleep, but his creepy-stalker perception of me will likely last. Good thing he knows better ... right?

Though my weekend included several other jaunts, the ear-pounding, yawn-inducing Thon experience truly defined it. I think that's what I love about this random weekend in February -- it's an event you could never find anywhere else, teeming with energy, and a welcome break from the tired routine of spring. Keep on dancin', y'all, for those that can't.