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As I’m technically the host I’ve taken it upon myself to remain comfortably drunk, and extremely social.
Greeting guests at a party is practically an art form, or at least some sort of demented ballet. It’s astounding to watch the twisted contortions of a man with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other try that handshake/hug maneuver that’s been gaining in popularity amongst college males lately. Girls are another story all together, you never know if you’ll be met with a hug so tight you throw up a little, a kiss on the check or bitchy indifference. Either way, everybody wants to make a statement on arrival. Even with the greatest intentions of an event that’s just good clean debauchery, people need their egos fluffed. So I make the rounds and try and talk to everybody once.

Time and my vision are a little blurry at this point, but three striking ladies have just arrived so I go and let them leave lipstick all over my face. One of the three femme fatales is my friend, Janessa, who grabs my cheeks and puts some venom on my lips to make them bigger. She asks if the third floor deck we’re on is the VIP area, laughing and cracking open a beer. I let her know that for her it’s VIP all the way, and we share a smoke and look down on the rest of the party below us. From inside I hear Robin Wilson on the stereo, “I’ll drink enough of anything, to make this world look new again,” just as my editor and her sassy friend walk in. At this point I’m starting to feel like its bedtime. So after chatting a bit longer, and posing for some embarrassing pictures looking in a kaleidoscope, I head to bed, this is enough of Friday.

Saturday and Sunday came and went, calm steady and uneventful. Monday is passing into night as I get a call from my editor. Theta Chi, Hamline’s last remaining frat is having a Pirate Party. We meet up over drinks and gather supplies: notebook, pens, voice recorder and lots of attitude. We’re blissfully walking through midway debating the merits of rough sex. Making our way to the house it’s a beautiful night the stars are out and Snelling avenue only vaguely smells of garbage. Walking up the disturbingly large porch we’re met by a solo pirate (Well, a first-year in a do-rag) on the lookout for landlubbers no doubt. We’re given a warm enough reception and lead into a dark living room filled, pulsing and murmuring with too many bodies piled onto too little furniture.

For a while the party consists of a bunch of college kids dressed in costumes watching some terrible pirate movie staring Gina Davis. As the movie wraps up we’re ushered outside for some swashbuckling action.
Two kids with bandannas, striped shirts and sashes are fighting one another with giant phalluses that look like their made out of the remains of several nerf toys. Against a backdrop of garish streetlights beating down on the late night traffic, with Enya’s “Sail Away” playing in the background, I attempted to get to the bottom of this bizarre ritual.

As my associate, Allan, embarrassingly got into the action I interviewed Frank Mahoney about the evenings activities. Mahoney is tall and lanky with long blond hair tied back under a tri-cornered hat. He’s so enthusiastic about the event that I don’t even want to make fun of it, because I always support somebody who puts their all into a good party. He planned the even earlier that day and made fliers, he also shouted invitations in the cafeteria to stunned lookers on. A+ for effort. He tells me of their skits earlier in the day and explains that he always enjoyed dressing as a pirate for Halloween, I pass no judgment.
Their slogan “Pirate Pride, not Piper Pride” so much for school spirit. When it’s all said and done I assess the situation. I’m half drunk and interviewing a pirate, I guess Monday’s aren’t so bad after all.