I think it might have been the cow poo.
A rough Halloween brought on an equally rough Saturday morning, plopping me flat in the valley known as crappy, er, Happy.
I shot the football game, complained about the awful press box and rubber weinies, and then I was supposed to have fun. Enjoy myself in a new college town I had never been to; out in the sticks of Pennsylvania, away from car horns and High Street curbsides.
State College was rampant with life. Penn State has a nice, clean looking town that writes the stereotype for ideal university settings. Small Nittany Lion spirit shops, tree-lined streets and an ambiance of innocence that made the frat houses seem like homes of wealthy statesmen.
I tried not to let dinner get me down. After all, it was on someone else’s tab, and who cares if the waiter can’t pronounce Michelob or gyro? All the more reason for me not to eat when my gyro (pronounced yee-roo) arrives tough and dry. But hey, the beer was cold and the pitcher of Long Island took the edge off the sleep deprivation.
Then it happened. The smelly pasture outskirts of State College took a huge dump on my visit.
Our little group met with some local acquaintances who took us to the Brewery, a basement bar that promised music in some form or another. One of these acquaintances bought me a beer and got me through the door. So far, so good.
I looked around at my surroundings and was slightly saddened by the homogenized look of the crowd. The bar was packed and I amused myself by watching the futile attempts of some patrons attempting to play pool.
“C’mon, I hear the music,” said beer buyer acquaintance guy.
I heard it too and responded with a multi-faceted cringe.
“Let’s go closer and see the band,” he said.
From the other side of the L-shaped bar came a live cover of Tool’s “Sober” and it only got worse.
Plush – the band – was fronted by a tubby little guy with a soul patch. He had pointy teeth, was probably 36 and wore a Middle Eastern shirt with many ribbons hanging off from it. I think he thought he was cool and so did his guitar player who had called off his nightly Internet porn session to come out and play the guitar.
Songs like Seven Mary Three’s “Cumbersome” allowed him guitar solos and full range of facial motion. The awful concoctions of jaw slacking and epileptic head bobbing were pure pleasure for this Plush listener, but soon I had to grab another beer as the buzz, I mean novelty was began to wear off.
At the bar my wallet afforded my choice of one bad Pennsylvania beer, supposedly from America’s oldest brewery. As I waited, I was shocked from happy daydreams that set me away from the Valley of the Smells.
A man was grinding on my leg.
“Excuse him,” his friend said. “He’s kind of drunk.”
The man stepped away as I put my hands up in defense.
“Your friend, he’s got some problems,” I said.
“I just couldn’t help myself, your sweater is just so gay,” said the leg-humper.
The article in question was simple blue stripes on gray. My closeted drunken friend was clad in a tight ribbed number. I pointed out the irony, but it was lost on him.
Back I went to the stage for a crowd-rousing cover of Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box.” A pair of wasted girls danced ridiculously front and center. They tilted violently back and forth, playing air guitar and swinging their long hair around like sputtering helicopters. This was beginning to hurt me, but then I had a revelation.
The State College experience and its lack of culture, character and relevancy was the best self-esteem booster a self-loather could ever experience. Here I was, amid all of this bad taste and blandness and it made me excited. Excited to know that I have taste in art and music as well as a city to go home to that supported this. Columbus might sometimes struggle but never will the main attraction be Plush or any other idiots playing bad ’90s alterna-crap. This made me smile and we left for greener pastures.
Ian James is a senior in journalism and art. He can be reached for comment at [email protected].
