In the post-Snowden era, the omnipresence of digital surveillance is a constant, menacing threat. That’s why I went to Alpha Delta Phi this weekend for its annual “The Party at the Place at the Time.”
Let’s start with concept. I guess “The Party at the Place at the Time” is funny in a benevolent Caucasian neighbor named Connor sort of way, so I would give that a seven out of 10.
I went with Manasvi, Austin, and Dan. On the way there, Manasvi and I discussed how Trump was the lesser of two evils, because we’re woke. Austin was just ready to have a good time, and Dan likes The 1975.
Now that the scene is set, we can get into the experience. We joined the clumpy line of people congregated outside the house, like cattle awaiting slaughter. Soon, the man granted us entry, and into The Place we went.
As I walked through the door, I was blasted with the scent Viktor & Rolf Spicebomb, sweat, and postmenstrual women. I was the postmenstrual woman.
And then — bodies, bodies everywhere, as we descended the stairs into the basement where early-2000s bangers such as Fountains of Wayne’s seminal 2003 release “Stacy’s Mom” lurked, eager to enter our ear holes and hearts.
We made our way through the dance floor like a cat desecrating a salmon carcass, and eventually we found a sliver of space available by the DJ. The room was impressively packed, so attendance was about a nine.
As I moved my size-eight 2013 Adidas Gazelle’s across the floor, I noticed something spectacular. The floor wasn’t even sticky. This moment of purity allowed me a brief, but special, experience of hope. Perhaps I wouldn’t need to self-induce a hysterectomy after all.
They played a mashup of Oasis’ “Wonderwall” and Major Lazer’s “Lean On,” and although it was the worst thing I’ve ever heard, I think atmosphere was a solid seven. That brings ADP’s score to a rounded eight. Great job. Please use my eyeballs for soup.
