La-di da-di, we likes ta party

Unless you've been planning your evenings around multiple airings of "Footloose" on TBS, I'm sure you've noticed that these past couple of weekends have been pretty live around town: Lots of people going out, lots of things to do and, most expectedly, lots of parties.

It's common knowledge that these first few weekends of a new semester are prime party opportunities. Class is not a big time-consumer yet, it's too early in the term to be making trips back home and Saturday Night Live currently is not worth watching, so everyone's itching to get out and find a good house party where they can place their hands in the air and wave them such as they do not care.

 

Chris Kula Unsung Ann Arbor

And because everyone and their twin sister chooses these first few weekends to throw the next great American party, you've certainly got options. Take tomorrow night, for instance: It's a pretty safe bet that every other house on (fill in street name here) will be jumpin' jumpin' by 11:30 p.m. and the only reason that the neighboring houses are silent is because they had their respective parties the previous weekend (or because they're house monkish grad students who'd really appreciate it if you kept it down while they read their Joyce, thanks).

Yet even in this time of tremendous party prosperity, there is just no escaping the same tired clichés that plague seemingly every party in every house, apartment, dorm room or back alley behind what-used-to-be Taco Bell. It's almost enough to make you want to stay home and watch Kevin Bacon cut loose and kick off his Sunday shoes.

"So, who do you know here?"

My God, what an inane question. How conversationally inept must you be to spring into small talk with an inquiry straight off a census form? Let me guess, did you already comment on the weather, the economy and/or the Cubs? Or are you just so crippled by your own paranoia - "Answer me, damn it, who do you know here?!" - that you must interrogate your fellow partygoers like a 1950s McCarthyist seeking out the Reds?

And the answer you receive, does it really make a difference to you? "Oh, you know Keith? Whew, that's a load off my mind - I thought you might know Sven, and Lord knows how we feel about Sven."

"We want music to dance to!"

All night long (all night), those two girls on the living room-turned-dance floor have made this futile demand during the first 10 seconds of any song that doesn't feature Destiny's Child-style beats or Mystikal-esque ass-shaking commands. They don't understand the tricky nature of crafting an awesome mix tape.

The big booty grind-wit'cho-man material must be separated by old-school jams (the Commodores' "Brick House," Kool and the Gang's "Celebration") and the occasional rock anthem (AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long," for instance). Old Michael Jackson? If you have the means, I highly recommend it - it's so choice. Then throw in some "Brown-Eyed Girl" for the white girls and some "Play That Funky Music" for the white boys and you're looking at the best dancing this side of Mr. Bojangles.

"Are there any cups left?"

Yes, in fact, there are so many cups left, people have grown tired of their ready abundance and have instead taken to rinsing out crusty coffee mugs and '89-'90 Bad Boys commemorative cups that they've scavenged from the kitchen sink. Ditto for the folks drinking out of empty Faygo two-liters, as well as the guy who's drinking from the orange juice carafe that is clearly Denny's contraband. Oh yes, there are plenty of cups.

It's been proven in a North Campus lab that, no matter how large the supply, plastic party cups will never last past midnight. I believe the blame should fall on the sorry jokers that inevitably take it upon themselves to act as "keg guys" and spend the entire evening pouring beer in the kitchen, relishing the fact that, if just for one night, they're somebody special.

"Hello, is there anybody in there?"

Are these Pink Floyd lyrics, or the last thing you hear before the bathroom door swings open on you? Either way, please pull up your pants.

- Chris Kula can be reached via e-mail at ckula@umich.edu.