The Valentine’s Day party scene? Not great. Granted, V-Day isn’t usually associated with crazy parties for those whose Facebook relationship status reads “single.” But still. As far as I know, most of the student body isn’t paired off, and, as many Yalies will use any excuse to get drunk and hook up with that random guy from art history section, I was expecting more than the handful of mediocre parties I sampled this Saturday. It was like hoping for a box of Godiva truffles from the hottie in your entryway, and getting a heart-shaped box of chocolates from your grandma instead.
My V-Day festivities began early. At about 8 p.m. I called the minibus to give me a ride down to Artspace Underground, the “fierce” (as host Madison Moore would say) party at the Artspace Gallery on Orange and Crown. We were three that night: VZ, another one of his visiting international friends (from Norway) and myself.
In keeping with the alternative vibe of the party, VZ and I decided it would be a good idea to wear wigs. His was a brunette version of Jude Law’s hair crossed with an afro, only made of a highly flammable synthetic material. Good choice. Mine was a bob a la Scarlet Johanson in “Lost in Translation.” Yes, it was pink — bright pink. Like, highlighter-burn-your-cornea-it’s-so-obnoxious pink. (When I later told my sister about the night, her response was, “You would.”)
We got to ArtSpace, paid the $5 entrance fee (receiving weird stares from the other patrons), and immediately realized we had made a terrible mistake.
It just doesn’t make sense. ArtSpace has the potential to be a really cool scene. It’s in an art gallery, there’s live music, modern art, classy drinks — throw some designer clothes on and you’re in an episode of “Gossip Girl.” But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe the $6 cocktails attract too many old people, the kind who dress in velour sweatsuits for a night on the town, the kind who make me flee any space instinctively.
We left ArtSpace before Norway could be tempted to spend any of her dollars on alcohol (I swear, the girl doesn’t understand exchange rates), and practically ran past the green on our way back to The Yale Bubble. As we neared bulldog territory, I noticed that I was receiving far more strange looks than usual. “Do I have something on my face?” I asked. I turned to VZ and suddenly realized what was wrong. Looking at the unruly curls sitting on top of his usually close-cropped hair, I put my hand to my head. I was still wearing the pink wig.
One bathroom stop later, I was back to my normal hair color and ready for my night to actually begin. Next stop: God Quad.
As a member of Branford College, I feel obligated to visit the suite whenever they throw a party. God Quad is usually our first stop, a passable pregame to begin the night (although I always feel a little guilty making the fro-cos leave whenever a big group of us freshmen show up). But Saturday just wasn’t cutting it. There was something unsettling about the balloons bumping into each other on the ceiling and the large jugs of red punch that had replaced the usual selection of mixers. The music was similarly lacking. Whoever had crafted the playlist for the evening was clearly in the mood for a ’90s hip-hop dance party, not a crazy V-day bash. Bouncing up and down to “Getting Jiggy Wit’ It” isn’t the best way to get some on Valentine’s Day. The final straw was when someone broke the tap on the keg in the corner. Next!
Then it was off to SigEp. Not a heart was in sight. No hint of pink or red decorated the dance floor. Just good, old-fashioned, all-American grinding. The speakers kept breaking but no one cared, filling the silence with clapping and chants of “no music!” Good times had by all.
Moral of the story: Valentine’s Day is not good for parties filled with single people. SigEp is.