So there we stood, two very white, very dirty frat boys dressed in layer upon layer of sweat pants and hoodies doing our best Stay-Puff-Marshmellow man impressions, having been fooled into camping out at the Electric Factory for Foo Fighters tickets. An alleged wife-beating, gun-carrying, basketball-superstar and general all-around bad ass was having a crazy party 100 feet away. Crashing was our only option. We left to concoct a master plan to foil security. Sean somewhat resembles Keith Van Horn -- if by resembles you mean kind of looks like Keith if he were a foot and a half taller and Mormon. Encouraged by a few beers, Sean did his best Keith impression. Using the patented "I'm so important that I can't talk to you because I'm on my cell-phone talking to my dirty friend hiding behind the Denali so I must be Keith Van Horn" approach, he convinced the somewhat basketball-slow list-lady that he was in fact Keith Van Horn. Unfortunately Keith, a recent Sixers acquisition, and apparently a total loser, was not invited. Rejected but not disheartened, we tried again a few minutes later after an elaborate costume change that involved switching hats and grabbing a now famous Accounting 102 notebook. Waiting in line to get in, with a name Sean snagged off of the list ("Keith something... Snyder? Slider? Shuman?"), we eyed the very large and quite obviously packing bouncers. Dressed incognito as 34th Street reporters, we heard the sweetest words in the English language, "Are you guys media?" to which we answered, "Of course." (Editor's Note: Sean and Mike have never worked for 34th Street and now never will.) Despite not being on the media-list, they gave us wristbands with which to gain entry. Armed with nothing but a notebook and a yearning for blunts, 40s, and bitches, we entered with eyes wide. What we found instead: open bar! Rappers! Sixers Girls! Famous people! Athletes! Sixers Girls! We had entered the Promised Land. To be brief, scantily-clad booty dancers working it on platforms, famous athletes, iced-out rappers, beautiful women everywhere, and... open bar. Being college students, anything that involves the word "free" is good, anything that involves "alcohol" is better and something that combines the two is nearly orgasmic. But all good parties must come to an end, and sometimes it seems they all end the same way. We talked to a big guy, his bigger friend, and his even bigger friend who must have had trouble standing weighed down by all his jewelry. "Where are all the bitches? These are all bitches I've seen before, I need new hos." Some guests went as far as to describe it as a "sausage fest." Abundance of unclaimed women or not, we were in no condition to pick them up, and were perfectly content with drinking hoards of free alcohol and gawking at the gorgeous dancers. After approximately two hours of party crashing, and one extremely close call with club security, we returned to the bitter streets, several drinks less sober, and one Allen Iverson story richer.

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