A night in the life

At the very beginning of a night on the town, I like to resign myself to a certain fate. A likely hangover in the morning. Little to no sleep. An empty or dwindling bank account that I pray will last me through the rest of the weekend.

On this particular Thursday, I was lying on my couch, looking around at my three-bedroom shack, the epitome of college-ville. Bits of sunlight flowed through my curtains, shedding light onto the trash that was overflowing out of my bins and the dishes collecting dust and mold in the sink. Smoke clung to the air, swirling in little circles over my head, and empty beer bottles and spoiled take-out remnants lined the coffee table, having accumulated over the last week.

I was putting off my inevitable getting-ready-to-go-out ritual, which, in a few hours’ time, would have me stalking around my bedroom, standing in front of my open closet door, a towel twisted into a turban around my head, and my hands on my hips, practically shouting for some outfit to leap to my attention. I did the routine text messages and phone calls to various friends to establish the evening’s plan.

Welcome to Chico, where “going out” can be as much a part of your college experience as studying. Let’s be real, this isn’t news. It has become an infamous aspect of Chico State’s reputation, probably our most well-known. I guess we’ve earned it. With last year’s riots and the occasional alcohol-related student death, not to mention our legacy on Playboy’s top-party-school list, Chico must seem like a wild, scary place. But what is the truth behind all the talk? Behind the YouTube videos? What do the ones who actually live it have to say?

Truth be told, it depends on who you ask. For me, the answer is probably similar to other students finishing up their undergraduate studies. But to give you something to go on, here’s my experience during a typical evening out:

The Posse

Thursday is arguably the best day (or night) to go out. By then, everyone is exhausted from going to school all week, from being cooped up in their rooms and attending to their studies. (Unless of course they are the ones hitting up Tuesday and Wednesday buck nights at Riley’s, Normal Street Bar and University Bar.)

As night starts to descend on this little college town, there is a frenzy in the air that can be felt through the downtown streets, from West Sac to Ninth Street and Pomona to Main. In every frat house, apartment complex and dirty hovel with a couch on its porch, Thursday means business. And for all intents and purposes, there is no tomorrow. To hell with the consequences, including that 10 a.m. class on Friday that you may or may not make it to.

This particular Thursday night began like any other, around 8:30, with beer pong at my friend Jon’s. He lives in one of those nearly indistinguishable apartments that dot either side of Nord Avenue. I would never know exactly where to turn if his complex didn’t immediately follow the sign for Barber Jon’s haircuts: “If we can’t make you look good, you’re ugly!” For one reason or another, this advertisement has stuck in my mind, and the sign’s blue-and-red barber stripes have become a lighthouse of sorts—a beacon of hope for a fun night out.

When I got there, I was greeted by comforting familiarities: a living room that had become my second home, with typical college décor—Peter Griffin (of Family Guy fame) holding an ale can in the air: “I’m not drunk! I’m just exhausted from a night of drinking.” Through the back screen door, I saw my friends yelling at each other while playing drinking games across a dirty wooden table whose center was slightly caved in and constantly threatened to capsize. It had various messages written on it, none of which bear repeating.

The group kicked up dust and leaned over the beaten table, shouting insults at one another, smoking cigarettes, drinking Keystone (only the finest).

Pre-party games

We discussed the night’s plan, which was almost always the same. The observers picked partners, shouting out “next game!” amidst hostile rebuttals from other prospective teams. The table became host to a simultaneous flip-cup and beer-pong tournament, more proof that for Chico State students, life is a constant balancing act.

What’s beer pong? Well, it involves plastic cups, two ping-pong balls, beer and a long table. Basically, each team has 10 cups filled one-quarter to half-way with beer. The cups are set up in a triangle at each end of the table. A couple of extra cups are filled with water to clean the ping-pong balls, which drop and get dirty throughout the game. (Jon’s “back yard” was really just an 8-by-12-foot dirt square with a fence on all sides. Playing out there always kicked dust into my flip flops, so the rest of the night I would walk around with “Chico feet.” I think my feet have been dirty for five years.)

The object of the game is to shoot the ball into the opposing team’s cup, and for every one you make, the other players have to drink that cup. The goal is to get rid of all your opponents’ cups before they get rid of yours. The losers drink the other team’s remaining cups, so even if you lose, you win. Beer pong is an art, as anyone at Chico will tell you. It takes skill. Not only that, but every group has its own rules—all variations of the same thing, but little differences that could seriously harm your game if you are caught unawares.

As usual, amidst cheers and occasional screams, every few minutes a blanket of near darkness covered Jon’s yard. The area had a motion-detecting light and the running joke was that Jon had a clicker for the sensor, because he seemed to be the only one who could ever trigger it. Probably because, at 6-foot-3, he was the tallest. Either way, throughout the night we were constantly yelling, “Damnit, Jon, where’s the clicker?”

The pre-partying lasted until around 11, about the same time the 96 beers had been dusted.

First stop

Panama’s is one of the smaller, more obscure bars downtown. You can spot the neon sign and palm tree as you stroll down Second Street past Pluto’s. The place was popular in our group because of the 31 alcoholic teas that on Thursday night are $3, and for the back room. It’s our first destination.

As usual, because we went enough to know all the bouncers and bartenders, we breezed through the front door. One of the pluses of going out on a regular basis is that the bouncers start recognizing you and stop asking for identification. On the one hand, you feel kinda cool; on the other, you start to wonder if you’re becoming an alcoholic.

Avoiding the front bar, we made a beeline for back, where a small door is visible. We headed into a dark room blanketed in a thin layer of smoke. Neon lights pointed the boys in the direction of the bar, while I scanned the crowd for an open table. Panama’s is a small bar, so it doesn’t take much for it to be completely packed, and that night, “’80s Night,” was no exception.

Panama’s is also special because it usually attracts an eclectic clientele—a harder-looking crowd, pierced and tatted up will adorn one table, while a group of bubbling blondes in their party dresses claim another. Frat boys, lesbians with buzzed hair, and the occasional dreadlocked hippy are thrown into the mix. It is like The Breakfast Club in a bar. Even the occasional tranny will tower over your head as she stalks through the crowd in a pink dress.

Billy Idol and Whitney Houston infected our bodies and we broke out in random chair dances. For someone whose butt is firmly planted, I rock out like nobody’s business. But for anyone who wants to really shake it, there’s a dance floor. We passed around cigarettes like joints (Panama’s is one of the only bars in Chico where you can smoke inside, a major draw) and talked and laughed and played pranks on each other. The boys stole each other’s straws and threw them on the ground or twisted them into knots and flicked them till they exploded. And as we sipped our Miami’s or our Orange Juliuses, the crowd hovered around us.

Last stop

The night moves pretty fast, and because we don’t usually filter downtown until 11 we oftentimes only make it to about two bars. Early birds can hit three or four or five, depending on how ambitious they are. Some of the faves? LaSalles, U Bar, the Banshee and, of course, The Bear.

Once we had gotten our fill of the teas, we rounded up the troops and made the three-block trek to what is officially Madison Bear Garden, the quintessential college bar and the last stop for many of-age revelers. Most students end up there at some point during their night. All of the people you want to see … and some you don’t … will be hanging out there beneath the array of wild memorabilia hanging from the ceiling.

On this night, I yelled at the bouncer who waved us in, keeping us out of a short line. Yes, after a year of going to The Bear every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, I was finally one of the recognized few. On any really packed night, there will be a line to get upstairs, and an equally long line for the women’s bathroom. On this night, there were both. I have waited many a torturous minute in that unholy bathroom line.

The best part of the Bear has to be the patio. Hundreds of people standing beneath twinkling lights; sitting on the tops of tables, taking shots, smoking cigarettes, standing in their own respective groups. Just a week shy of graduating, I felt the brevity of the moment. This was what it meant to be young. I realized this was the type of freedom that comes only during these precious “best years.” And while we often don’t acknowledge these fleeting times, there was almost a desperation in the air to hold onto it.

We took our quick smoke break and then stood in line to get upstairs. After a few moments the bouncer waved us up, and we climbed the stairs, the banisters thumping with music. Taking the final step up into the dance room, I surveyed what I could over the multitude of heads. Already my feet were sticking to the floor as I made my way through the barrage of dancers.

More familiar faces greeted me as I stood in a circle of my friends, trying to show off my most capable looking white-girl moves: hands over the head, the booty shake, all the typical “I’m-not-sure-what-I’m-doing-but-I’m-having-fun” dances. My hair stuck to the nape of my neck in a crowd that almost took the breath right out of me.

Eventually, we heard the bartenders shout “last call!” Many nights we headed to Pita Pit or Franky’s for late-night grub, but this night we went straight to the after-party at Jon’s. We ate and played more pong and blasted our iPods until the wee hours of the morning, when we finally dragged our asses home, knowing full well we would do it all again the next night.

So this was my typical night out. No riots, no drinking until I puked or ended up hospitalized; just toeing a fine line between control and complete mayhem. My circle of friends walked it well, and we did so between jobs and classes. Partying in Chico isn’t about the occasional headline that blemishes the university. It’s about you and your friends in the best years of your life. Thanks, Chico. It’s been a blast.

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DYK … that you’re breaking the law when you ride your bicycle while intoxicated? Yep, it’s called BUI (biking under the influence) and it carries fines, too.