Remember That Time? …neither do we

Post- Magazine, Brown Daily Herald, Spring Weekend Edition, 4/27/12

By:  and 


Via Post- Magazine

Ahh, Spring Weekend. For seniors, a last-ditch effort to forget that graduation looms and a time to find ecstasy in a PBR or a succinctly rolled joint. For freshman, an elusive ideal that combines fraternity tank tops with the enigma of Dave Binder. For everyone, sort of a mess. In anticipation of a wonderfully fuzzy weekend, we present you with some favorite Spring Weekend memories of the Post- editorial staff. And in the spirit of complete honesty, we probably don’t remember them any more than you do.
Freshman year: my first and last experience with a foam party. I neither had the appropriate attire (bikini top and shorts in brisk 40-degree weather), nor was I adequately intoxicated (I was very, very drunk). There I was, waist deep in foam, in my soaked jeans and a soiled top, trying to stay upright amid the drunken mix of Brown society waffling around me. Music was playing, so my friend and I shifted our hips in a way to suggest dancing. This primal movement apparently attracted the attention of a very short, strange man-boy, who maneuvered towards us. We moved away as quickly as one can in a sea of sticky foam. Moments later, disaster struck. “My flip-flop!” I dreaded the thought of reaching under the bubbles. I had written off my shoe as lost when our small-statured friend showed up. Before I knew what was what, he’d taken a breath and dived under, returning triumphantly with the missing flip flop. Perhaps the gallant knight expected a token for his sacrifice, a peck on his foam-covered head, but I could only thank him profusely and hope that he was satisfied with his random act of kindness. –JB
It’s a beautiful spring day at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut. The 100-year-old elm trees stand tall and proud in the center of the main quad, coined the Long Walk by TrinColl residents due to the quintessentially collegiate cobblestones and Gothic-inspired dormitories circling the green. The sun shines on the shoulders and legs of students walking across campus; they have donned sunglasses and shorts in joyous celebration of the warm weather. Eager to join the masses of students enjoying the day, I step outside into the sunlight … and into the world of Trinity College Spring Weekend. Among the elms gracing the main green, hundreds of students are playing beer pong outside, enjoying smoke circles, and generally running around completely wasted. A sippy cup full of whiskey in my hand, I look around and notice my friends collecting in a certain corner of the quad. Hanging from the third-floor window of one of the historic dorms is a white PVC pipe. My roommate’s boyfriend, in his best fraternity attire, is gripping the bottom of the pipe with both hands, chugging and soaking himself with beer. Everyone laughs and clamors about who gets to drink next. I turn around and smile sweetly as a prospective student tour group passes through a nearby arch. –AT
When I was a student at Codumbia Uniperversity, I tried to avoid mass gatherings. But Of Montreal was coming for the annual Bacchanal music festival, and so, because it was at no cost to me and because my ex boyfriend LOVED Kevin Barnes, we elected to bop around in front of the library on a Saturday night. Codumbia’s Butler Library was rated one of the nation’s most beautiful (probably in Stupid magazine), and that April night it did look pretty damn pretty, glowing and stately. I remember looking out at the library, taking a hit from a stranger’s doobie, and wondering what all was so great about Homer. “I’d take Hissing Fauna over The Iliad any day! AMIRIGHT?” I exclaimed to a skinny girl next to me, taking the chance that she was on the same page … but she just kept taking swigs of something muddy to wash down a tablet. Oh well. I took another hit and flicked off the library, wanting like hell to get out of New Yuck Shitty. But then I got some perspective: I was just one awkwardly haired girl taking a hit in the world’s most populous city, and I was among the bleary-eyed college students standing closest to Kevin Barnes. –CL
For my very first article for Post-, I recounted the sad tale of my freshman-year Spring Weekend, spent in a dark, black box theater, cozying up to a fire extinguisher while the concerts raged on just a few yards away. Needless to say, by the time sophomore spring rolled around, I was ready to make up for lost time. Thursday afternoon, I buzzed with excitement (and a sugar high from massive amounts of free cotton candy) as I bounced from the SPEC carnival to Fiction I, the last class I would attend before the festivities began. The whole class was antsy, flipping through Kafka half heartedly as sunshine streamed through the J. Walter Wilson windows. Our TA, a supremely mellow individual who started off each class with incense and celebrated the end of the semester by bringing us pizza and beer, kicked back in his chair, took a deep breath, and proceeded to give us some words of wisdom. Advice to make us better writers and, he claimed, better human beings. “Just do everything,” he said. We nodded along—life experience makes for writing material, we’d heard the spiel before. But this was not your typical lecture: He then proceeded to tell us that we should be spending our time drinking as much as possible, having plentiful and imaginative sex, and doing hallucinogens to “open our minds.” He later claimed that the timing was serendipitous, that he had no idea he was telling us to be heathens on the most debaucherous weekend of the year. But regardless, we took his timely advice to heart. As the weekend proceeded (in a very satisfactory fashion—take that, Spring Weekend 2009!), I bumped into several of my classmates in various states of sobriety. And with knowing smiles, we congratulated each other: “I see you’re doing your homework. S with distinction for you.” –JH
Big hats. Lilly dresses. Croakies. And copious amounts of alcohol.  Add these together and you get the general idea of the Foxfield Races in Charlottesville, Virginia. The day starts early: 6 a.m. alarm, 7:30 shots, then the traffic-ridden ride to the racecourse. The horses are present, yet elusive. The main point is to get to the concession stand fast, buy a Jumbo Size Lemonade, and proceed to the closest fraternity plot to saturate your sugary drink with an excessive amount of vodka (or gin or whiskey—pick your poison).  From there the idea is simple: take pictures (usually pointing at horses with feigned surprise), run around looking for people you vaguely know to give them overly enthusiastic hugs, and lie on the ground, gazing at the sky as you contemplate whether or not you can rally after a four-hour nap. Most make it through, but some let the sun and the booze get the best of them. I personally had to elbow through a drunken line to the Porta-Potty on behalf of one of my friends who had fallen victim to a generous pour. Luckily she made it out alive, beating out all those boys in seersucker who managed to get themselves arrested.  And me? Well, I had a grand ol’ time. My lemonade may have been a little too strong, but I ended up safe and sound (and a little burnt) back in my bed for a good afternoon’s sleep followed by a couple episodes of SVU. –ZH
Music festivals aren’t my natural habitat. For starters, I’m scared of dirt and sweat. So as my friends drove off to Coachella, most of them already high on shrooms, I stayed at Pomona and hit the stacks. When I first heard about Treasure Island, it sounded more up my alley. Held off the coast of San Francisco, it is far from the sweltering deserts of Coachella and closer to the thrift and coffee shops I like most about California. The proximity to my roommate’s house, complete with running water, clean linens, and doting grandparents, made it an unbeatable choice—the perfect training-wheeled transition into the dirty wilderness of music festivals. But six hours into the first day, my relaxed and blissful expectations had given way to the sweaty and miserable reality. The line for the shuttle stretched across several city blocks, each unshaven, musky concertgoer blending into the next. By the time we were past security and in sight of the stage, I was unbearably nauseous and wanted to go home. But then it all changed. In the corner of my eye, I made out a shortish man carrying a ukulele, walking to the center of the stage. And then he began to play the most soothing notes I had ever heard, joined by an accordion, a few trumpets, and his own voice, delicate as sand. (The song, I later learned, was Beirut’s “Elephant Gun.”) I began to forget the eight-hour drive, the long lines, the lingering metallic tint of the bootlegged vodka. Now I simply swayed, back and forth, unusually grateful to be outside, next to friends, and listening to music. –SK
I f*cking love cocaine. –PL

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