I believe it was the renowned entrepreneur Charles Edward Cheese who once said, "Birthdays are for suckers." Twenty-five years ago, this cheese-whiz caught onto the fact that society is full of money-shredding twelve-and-under year olds, most of whom were born at one point or another. Cheese realized that he could convince parents that birthdays should be honored with ticket-spewing, pepperoni-padded, token-choking fun and that this "fun" would make him rich, and everyone would be too intimidated by his gold coins to give him a hard time about how he refuses to come out of that frightening mouse costume.
I'm pretty much against giant mice/clowns and I don't really care much for birthdays either. Specifically, birthdays that aren't "my birthday" --those are the kind that I really dread. Chuck E. Cheesy parties are fine for little kids, who are gullible enough to buy the whole "we're so happy you were born, we'd just love to sing about it!" charade ... but for college students? I feel like you have to be "a few balls short of a Discovery Zone" to actually believe that anyone really gives two cheese pizzas about the fact that you were born yesterday.
So yesterday was my twenty-first birthday (note: not asking for two cheese pizzas). In accordance with my new, "of-age" philosophy, no piatas/pin-the-tail-on-the-donkeys/boys with or without cooties were invited to my party. The whole bash was pretty low-key, actually. I went to Lone Pine, ordered "a beer" and paid with my Dartmouth Card. It was glorious. Then I went to my 10 A. That part did not involve glory.
Dartmouth certainly has an Animal House-induced "booze-or-lose" reputation and, up until yesterday, I was one of those losers. Yes, nine out of ten rocket scientists agree that frats are only fun when you're wasted --but don't be deceived! That doesn't mean you need alcohol to have a good time. As underage, law-abiding, problem-solving individuals, many Dartmouth students survive weekends by turning to various (legal) remedies to sobriety, including: (a) sleep deprivation, (b) extreme malnourishment and (c) Red Bull/Nail Polish Remover lattes. Although these solutions have never failed to dizzy-me-up sufficiently, I always looked forward to the day that I could simply accept a drink from that charming frat dude without landing his house on double-secret probation.
I'll be honest with you, it's not like I'd never had a beer before. Back in my underage days, I'd cave every now and then and order an O'Doul's after a round or two of Shirley Temples. I don't know if it's the "poisonous" ingredient or what, but Keystone is just so much tastier! According to my research so far, the only downside to being able to drink is that, unlike Powerade pong, beer pong gets a lot trickier as the game progresses. Plus, Keystone just doesn't power you up with that electrolyte kick when the competition starts getting x-treme. Oh well.
I suppose we twenty-one year olds have more sophisticated things to be doing than playing pong, anyway -- like going to Murphy's for Pub Quiz Night. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this phenomenon, Pub Quiz Night is a weekly event in which patrons of the pub are quizzed and the first table to guess the square root of Donny Osmand's shoe size wins. The prize is booze! Quiz Night is basically like pong for nerds, but without paddles/balls. Oh, and you get to sit at the tables ... and eat nachos.
Of the bars I've scoped out so far arounde towne, Five Olde Nugget Alley definitely wins the "a.k.a. The Catacombs" Award. Every time I descend into that dungeon-like lair I get this creepy feeling that I'm about to be confronted by Lord-of-the-Ringsesque creatures lurking over boiling cauldrons of Guinness. It is very likely that this paranoia is inspired by the fact that their mascot is a tuxedo-clad groundhog in a top hat. Some have argued that this sharply-dressed, can-can dancing, woodland critter is "cute." I contend that he is "the ringleader of my nightmares." That said, Five Olde is probably going to be my number-one hangout spot now that I'm twenty-one. After all, it was featured as Playboy Magazine's "College Bar of The Month" in July 2004, and cited as the best place in town to pick up Hobbits, Elves and grad students.
Everyone is obvi familiar with the entirely baseless rumor that SA has teamed up with Stinson's in a campaign to get the drinking age in Hanover lowered to eighteen. I used to be a big supporter of this movement, but for some reason, I've just recently changed my mind. I've decided that allowing under-twenty-one year olds to drink is a terrible idea. I mean, it's hard enough to get into the Wine Discovery Miniversity class as it is -- we don't need any little kids going after our spots. Those tykes can have their own little whine party at Chuck E. Cheese. Ha-ha "whine" and Chuck E. "Cheese"... get it? (Wow. That was an "old-person" joke. I must be aging -- aging like a fine wine! One that's great with cheesy jokes. Get it!?! Uhh, I gotta go to bed.)
This brings me to my next point. Since I've turned twenty-one, all of these adults have been asking me "how it feels to be an adult." Oh, it's so funny you asked, because -- oops, time for your prune-juice dome! Why don't you quit accusing me of being old/responsible and instead follow through a little "thought exercise." Ready? Thanks to technology, vitamins and global warming, the life expectancy for my generation has been extended for at least another decade. The question that inevitably arises is -- where will those extra ten years go? By that I mean, am I going to spend those years being an old fart on a rocking chair next to that person I married sixty years ago? Or should I rather, spend those extra ten years in rock-out city, taking no prisoners and being a twentager? To each his/her own, but I vote for "not-being-a-fart."
"Twentager" (n.): Brave individuals of Generation-at-Now who rule at life, have humungous ideas and plan on waiting 'til they're 30 to do everything they're supposed to be doing in their twenties. In the meantime, they will abide in rock-out-city, take zero prisoners, somehow magically make money, go on some adventures, save a little chunk of the world and boo-yah waiters when they even tryyy to card us.
If I were to model my life after, say, the average individual in my Mom's generation, I would only have about zero more months before I married Dude X. (I know you're out there somewhere. What are you up to these days? Call me!) Fortunately, I have my career to pretend to be thinking of. I'm too busy/important/ambitious to settle down with some millionaire. I need some more time to figure out some things about my life ... like how to trick guys into going on dates with me. Perhaps a little social lubricant will help me get the ball rollin' with Charles Cheese. I hear he's making a killing these days. M.R.S. Alice M. Cheese. Wow. I need a drink.
-Feel free to buy me one later. (21! BooYAH!)
