April 05, 2003

Saturday Night Fever

No, I did not go to a disco or anything like that. Oh no. My day proved I was an even bigger loser. I spent nearly all of it at the library, learning about molecules and stuff. But that is nothing new. Read on, however, and learn what is.

So, normally Saturdays at the library are not very crowded, and for a good reason—it is the weekend. It's a time to relax, rest, and party, not a time to study or be buried in books three stories underground. Today, however, turned out to be an exception. I got to the library around 1 pm, and I had to spend nearly fifteen minutes finding a seat. For those accustomed to studying at the library, this is nothing unusual on a weeknight. But on a Saturday? Unheard of. Guess we are in midterm season. That is not the point.

The real fun started when it got dark outside. The only reason I could tell was because I saw it get progressively darker through the skylight. I had only stayed at the library until it was dark on a Saturday once before, and that was freshman year, so I didn't remember what it was like. I guess all the students in the library realized it was Saturday night, because it was a regular party atmosphere.

I had been sitting on level C until I went to get dinner, and when I returned, I could not find a place. So I went to poser land (Level D, East) and sat on the tables to the side (not the round one in the middle, mind you). Anyway, I looked around me: We had the stereotypical azn thug, with a beater on. It was freezing cold outside! What was he doing with a beater? What else? I knew I was in the poser realm.

As soon as I sat down, in came two "G'z" or rather, Berkeley's equivalent—two skinny white guys who think they are gangsta. Dressed in basketball jerseys, baggy pants sagging past their boxer line (i.e., you could see the entire boxer short, and then the pants started), and of course at least three gold chains apiece. I looked to see if they were carrying a boom box or something, but apparently they must have forgot that accessory at home. They plodded around, trying to talk like Snoop Dogg does, but failing miserably, sat down for a minute, then got up and continued to limp around level D.

Enter the next stereotypical party character: the ho'ed up girls. Down the stairs come three women, dressed in short (short!) skirts, tight (tight!) tops that left very little to the imagination, and of course the mandatory two pounds of makeup and knee-high leather boots. Between them, they probably also had about twenty rings. Glad to see the red light district was represented. And people say Berkeley isn't diverse. What is that but diversity—I mean we even got prostitutes! Anyway, the G'z started macking on them, but apparently the girls (a/k/a prostitutes) didn't take too kindly to the gangsta way of life, considering they were so sophisticated, and ignored the G'z. Two minutes after the rejection, it dawned upon the gangstas that they had been dissed, and so, in order to save face, they said something along the lines of bitches ain't shit and continued to limp up the stairs. If I had had a baseball bat, I would have given them something to really limp about.

Okay. Let me interrupt this narrative and say something really quick. If you're trying to memorize how a double-bond O becomes a double-bond N, and what the hell Wolff-Kishner is, you do not go to a frat party. But apparently this is what was in store for me, and I was getting pissed off at the idiotic morons who pervaded this entire section of the library. I knew there was a reason I never study down there! The worst was yet to come.

Going along with the party motif, we had about five or six people—more respectable looking men and women—talking on cell phones. They were dressed in the customary, classy Berkeley house party get-up; if you were to move them into any of those venues, they wouldn't be out of place. Of course, while I was trying to study, them talking about what this one chick said or how hot that guy is was obnoxious beyond belief. What else do you expect from posers though? Guess these guys never realized that having a celly isn't that big a thing these days and feel the need to show it off to everyone. Maybe if I threw mine at them, they would get the point—Look, I got one too, but that doesn't mean I talk loudly in the library with it!

Now, I had had just about enough of this bullshit. But here comes the worst party character. The drunken frat boys playing some sort of sport—badly. Two guys walked in tossing a crumpled up paper between them and yelling loudly. Now these people really needed to be shot. You freakin' assholes! This isn't Memorial Glade and a CRUMPLED UP PIECE OF PAPER ISN'T A FRISBEE!!! Even the G'z tried to whisper. I hope you burn in hell.

Did I mention the guy with the MASSIVE headphones sitting next to me, bumpin' hip hop (i.e., the music for the party)? I wonder how he understood a single thing that he was reading with the music so loud it was ECHOING OFF THE WALLS and IN MY HEAD!

I finally just couldn't stand it anymore. I got up and got the hell out of there after like 10 minutes, moving back to a normal area of the library. But then again, it was my mistake for entering the POSER CENTRAL area of the library (a/k/a Level D, East). If someone had thrown me the peace sign when I left I might have strangled them! GOD, I HATE HATE HATE POSERS.