The microwave clock made it clear I was cheating. As the time-11:53 a.m.-blinked in regular beats, I dropped six squares of ice into a glass I had frosted just for the occasion. I poured liberally from a Vodka bottle I had paid for in quarters, added a touch of tonic and commenced stirring. Standing in front of my television-as a bright-eyed weather woman pronounced the sky cloudy and rain a “statistical possibility”-I took a generous gulp of Dimitroff-inspired bliss.
The vodka swirled and the ice clinked, and I made a mental note of a few things. First, despite planning to wait until noon to start drinking, here I was, at seven till, with a glass in my hand. Point number two came upon catching my reflection in the living room mirror. I saw an unshowered man of roughly 22 years, sporting only boxers, clutching a comically oversized, thoroughly frozen mug. I shuddered, briefly, and then remembered that this was, in fact, okay. I could be content with the picture of sloth that stood before me because of the all important point number three-it was September 23rd, it was W.I.L.D. and alcoholism and indolence were officially sanctioned.
After finding the shower and some pants, I gathered with friends to celebrate in a manner less indicative of a drinking problem. By three o’clock, spirits were high, sobriety was low and the apartment was abuzz with a general giddiness. Although no formal polls were administered, I can report that most in attendance felt that life was good and, basically, worth living.
Upon arriving at the concert, however, those unofficial poll numbers quickly went south. There was a healthy turnout, the weather stayed pleasant and it’s hard to complain about free food. But there was that music. From what I remember of it, there was a lot of bass, some hard to place thumping and lots of shouting in rhythm. One gentlemen in particular kept asking what were apparently rhetorical questions-“what?”-and then answering them very abruptly. This was a pattern-lots of bass, lots of “what?”-that was repeated with an admirable diligence and stamina. All in all, it’s not that it was bad, so much as just genuinely boring.
The charm and candor the performers exhibited, however, was hard to ignore. In between songs, a few of the gentlemen on stage stopped to address the women of campus directly. Striking a diplomatic tone, and showing only the utmost respect, they asked the girls if they were interested in expressing their appreciation and affection by removing some clothing. They noted the advantages of freeing oneself from burdensome t-shirts and undergarments and invited all the girls to take part in the merriment. After each request, they would slowly and expectantly scan the crowd, obviously excited to see the bounty of breasts unfold. This offer was re-extended every three or four songs.
Now, despite my complaints, I want to emphasize that I am a fan of W.I.L.D. In fact, I am what one might call an enthusiast. Daytime drinking is a sport that is seldom seen as socially acceptable and I am a firm believer in capitalizing on the opportunities that arise. W.I.L.D. also seems to sincerely bring the campus together in a way that few other events do. So, let’s be clear: W.I.L.D. is a good thing.
But can’t we all agree that Lil’ Jon’s show was kind of lame? Let’s protect the sanctity of W.I.L.D. by bringing some one worth seeing. Yee-ah!
Zach is a senior in Arts & Sciences.