It's that time of year again, time to assess the best and worst the University of Pennsylvania has to offer. This weeks Scubbin' is dedicated to the institutions that perennially make Penn a place not among equals. Hold on as I take you on a free-wheelin' tour of our Pennstitutions.
Mask & Wig
People ask me all the time, "Jarrod, don't you ever get tired of making Mask and Wig jokes based on the same old premise that they're cross-dressing deviants who aren't very funny to begin with?" Every now and again, I consider taking a different angle to my formulaic Mask and Wig mocking, but call me simple, call me stupid--that shit still gets a smile out of me. Let's just say something is clearly wrong when I have a harder time imagining certain members in a baseball uniform than in a dress.
The other night, I was relaxing at my friend's house, conveniently right next door to the home of the Mask and Wig's chairman and director. Fortunately for me, I had timed my night to perfectly coincide with the M&W "hazing" ritual for sophomores who are now allowed to enter the fraternal circle jerk. The "chug, chug, chug" chant cut through the night air, probably directed at some hapless sophomore dressed in tights and a fabulous blonde wig. I laughed to myself at the silent irony that this bunch crew was in women's clothing and tap shoes three hours prior. I actually did attend their show and witnessed a gross injustice directed at our beloved magazine--in a sad attempt to redeem themselves for Cultural Elite eligibility, they dropped this Street editor's name in their traditional snapping/name-dropping routine, managing to prove that bribery, not flattery, will get you everywhere you want to be.
If you enjoy men in wigs and dresses, get yourself down to their show. Even if you don't enjoy that so much, or even think it's a little bit freaky, you should get down there just to support their constitutional right to do whatever it is they do. In the end, they're still just a bunch of cross-dressing deviants.
Smokey Joe's
I was not going to include Smoke's in this list. I thought it was time to move on, to examine venues other than the tried and true. Maybe it was time for el nuevo Billybob's star to shine, or even for the Blarney. But I kept coming back to Smoke's. After all, it made the word Pennstitution mean something. Furthermore, I have spent the last four nights there drunkenly dancing to the UK Smash Club Hits 2001 CD that's on constant repeat.
While the doormen still insist on checking your ID even though they well know they've seen it about six times in the past week, Smoke's has been an all-around better place to hang out lately. The timeless "charm" sticking to the tables, floor and some SDT girl are unfortunately still present, but Billybob's drain on the 40th Street scene has left Smoke's less packed and more pleasant.
Why no one starts out his night here, I have yet to understand. Through my personal experience, Smoke's is the kind of place you tend to fall into but never know why. It's the kind of time you think you'll never forget, but normally, you just never remember what you got up to.
Sink or swim is on Wednesday. I recommend sinking. If you happen see a drunk kid in the corner mumbling about how much he hates Quizzo, come over and give me a kiss. I get lonely sometimes.
McNeil Building
The other day, on my way to the Sociology Department, I encountered the unmistakable smell of overflowing toilets immediately upon entering the McNeil Building. I think to myself of all the times I entered this building to this exact olfactory sensation. "That's one of the great things about going to a school like Penn," I say to my companion, "Think of all the generations of great sociologists and economists who have walked through this very building to encounter this very same stench of shit."
After two dry heaves and 30 seconds of holding my breath, we make it to the hidden stairwell reminiscent of a prison cell, alighting to the second floor into a vast atrium dedicated to the greatness of sociology and earth tones. Beware of the Coke machine--the ghost of Robert McNeil eats my money every week. My sociology professor tells me that the place is designed to give professors privacy from inquiring students--yeah, that would be true only if tenured econ professors' tedious curricula didn't already keep students far enough away.
A fun trick of mine to play on the econ students is to stand at the top of the atrium with my Alan Greenspan mask, feeding economic predictions and Mr. Goodbars to all who will listen. Those Wharton kids don't know what they're missing.
