The Chicken Dance
 >>> Edited For


By staff writer Mike Forest

September 1, 2004


Welcome one and all. Hopefully everybody is moved in and ready to go to class and learn. I'm skipping my first class of the year to write this week's article. I felt it
only right.

“Are you guys from Farm House?”

That was the question asked of me about fifty times by a girl at a party Friday night. It wasn't even a “party;” a few of us were sitting around working our way through a
dirty thirty and she showed up with a friend-of-a-friend.

“Are you guys with Farm House?”

I'm not really sure what this “Farm House” is, but I'm assuming it's half National Lampoon and half denim overalls and paisley bandanas. I
envision corn piñatas and a kegerator painted like an udder. This is “Moo U” after all. We told her for the hundredth time that none of us had anything to do with
farm house…whatever the hell that was. It was the Friday night of Welcome Week and there was beer to be drank…er…drunk…drunken. We stood out on the balcony and
watched groups of freshmen walk by.

“You guys having a party?”

“Nope. Keep walking.” They're all so cute, the girls in their tiny skirts and one strap whore shirts. The guys followed along in their Von Dutch hats and fake cutoff
shorts. We didn't want anything to do with them.

Saturday was my night for a real party. I headed away from campus and toward downtown where the freshman can't go. The party I was on my way to was between a crack house
and a hair salon. It was perfect. The keg was PBR. There was a baggie in every pocket. The turntables were spinning. I didn't know many people there, so I tried to see how
many new friends I could make.

You know those standard party conversations? I had all of them:

“Sure he's a douchebag, but I don't trust Kerry either.”

“Football team? Hope to see them go .500 this year. Should be able to if our new guys perform like they should and our seniors don't get injured.”

“Rock is dead? Long live early Pearl Jam, man. Yeah I love '10' too. It's like my favorite album of all time.”

“Lakers are done forever. Fuck the Lakers. Even when my Pistons won all I heard about was how the Lakers lost.”

“Family Guy is the greatest show ever. Remember when Lisa tried to be an activist?”

“And then he goes, ‘What? Yeeaaaahhh!'”

I love all these convos. They don't require any actual thought. You've had them all so often that they just flow. Early in the night I was lucky enough to meet a girl who
thought I looked like Paul Rudd. We had real conversations and talked about everything from old Disney movies to memories or renting Nintendo games. The night was perfect…. Until I got ambushed.

I went in to see the band and there was a girl in the front row who kept turning around trying to catch my eye. I managed to ignore her for a few minutes, but then she
finally saw that I saw that she saw that she managed to catch my eye. Dammit.

“Hi,” I said.

This turned out to be the wrong thing to say because it started up a five minute conversation during which I bluffed the whole time.

“How have you been?” she asked.

Who the hell is this? Should I know who she is? “Same ol'. Same ol'. Just trying to do my thing,” I answered. Shit. Did we have class together once?

“Yeah me too…blah blah blah.”

Seriously. Who is this chick? Did we meet through friends? At a party? Nothing clicked. Damn I better nod so she thinks I'm listening. Okay. Now who the hell is she? Fuck
it I give up.

The conversation went on, but it didn't help. I still had no idea who she was. I excused myself to get another beer. She had claimed to know people who I knew, so I went
looking for them to see if they could help. Of course they had no idea who I was talking about. She followed me outside and I heard her introduce herself to someone else.
Aha! A name. Surely that will spark something.

Nothing. Dammit.

I finally remembered who she was. It was the proudest moment of the night. I asked her a question about the class we had had together just to show her that I remembered.
That was a mistake because then she latched onto me for the next hour. I sat on the tailgate of a truck in the driveway and braced myself for a few minutes of polite
conversation. It was good I had a fresh beer.

I don't want to say the girl came on strong, but her personal space and my personal space were quickly becoming one much like the Bush administration and Big Business.
(Sorry if that doesn't make sense. I don't really know a lot about politics.) She stood between my legs and proceeded to lean in and shove her boobs in my face. I leaned
back and looked away. Afraid that I was missing her intent, she referenced them: “I sure am showing a lot of cleavage tonight.”

Normally I would have gone for a line like that, but I had already met someone at this party. Sure I could have turned it into a Frasier episode, but it just wasn't worth
it. I excused myself to get another beer and find the future Mrs. Paul Rudd.

“I won't be here when you get back,” cleavage girl called after me.

“I'm not coming back,” I said without turning around. “I hear they're having a party at Farm House.”