So two Saturday nights ago some friends and I are doing the Rugby wander, working the Mad Bowl -- you know how it goes.
It's late -- real late. The Saturday Night Live characters have been tucked in for hours. The Ladies Man has already lured some groovy chick though his beaded doorway to his beanbag chaired, tapestried walled love pad. The Spartan Cheerleaders have said their last hurrah at the combo Chess and Scrabble Tournament and are cuddled up under a down duvet in some posh NYC penthouse.
Yet my friends and I are still awake, outside under the Charlottesville sky and pondering the eternal weekend question of youth: Are we up for "Late Night?"
"Late Night" -- the mystery, the debauchery, the term so esoteric that in order to understand its full essence it must be flanked by quotation marks. Or better yet, when mentioned, it must be physically highlighted with the forefinger/middle-finger quotation marks -- an expression made famous by third grade teachers.
"Late Night" must join the likings of other such honored/irritating terms we quote with our fingers: "politically correct" or "just friends."
So anyway, I'm standing in the front lawn of this fraternity house, (brick, white columns, the works) listening to the music rattling the windows. And what pops in my mind?
None other than the words of Alexis de Tocqueville: "Absolute power corrupts absolutely."
What power am I thinking of at such an obscure hour in the night? I'm talking about the "Late Night"-Sharpie-Marker-Power of a first year frat boy at the door who bestows his indelible circular mark of entrance to "Late Nighters" at his whim.
The boy's Sharpie Marker is his wand -- used to beseech whomever he deems worthy of entering the utopian haven beyond.
The ratty couch which graces the house's porch is his throne, because now in the heart of the night, when perceptions go awry, it is the "Late Night" door boy who governs the future of all party-goers. Power-tripping in the USA!
Now I'm still standing at a distance, watching "Door Boy" wield his authority, and I hear the song "Jesse's Girl," blaring though the windows:
"I wish I had Jesse's girl. I wish I had Jesse's girl.
Where can I find a woman like that?"
Then I start pondering stuff again, like, who is this "Jesse" and why is his friend writhing with jealousy for his "girl."
What exactly make's "Jesse's girl," so alluringly cool? Would Jesse and his girl be blessed by the Sharpie marker of "Door Boy" should they happen upon this scene?
Or would only Jesse's girl be allowed entranced since she was sporting a hot tube top? Deep thoughts.
I spot a flock of girls in tube tops, tank tops, crop tops and camisole tops, strutting along in three-inch heels, six-inch heels and 9-inch heels.
They ascend the steps to embrace the "Door Boy," who slouches low on his couch throne with the lackadaisical air of nonchalance -- an ironic contrast to his shirt over starched by Sunshine cleaners.
The girl flock bears gifts: views of their cleavage. Perhaps they promise "Door Boy" a make out session later -- anything to get into the party, "In da Club."
Without hesitation, they are granted entrance into the exclusivity of "Late Night" bliss and DJ Sammy's heaven.
Moments later, an equally large herd of guys approach the door with pitiful slouches which exude the air "We're not worthy!"
They bow to "Door Boy" eye the Sharpie marker like a ravenous wolf gazes upon a pasture of peacefully sleeping lambs.
They attempt to network and make connections with "Door Boy" dating back to the sandbox, mutual play-group pals or their brother's best-friend's-fiancée's second-cousin's niece's nursery-school-crush.
"Door Boy" takes a long drag of his cigarette to add to his hard-to-resist stench of nicotine, blows the smoke into the herd of guys' faces and turns them away.
Denied! How, they wonder, will they ever show their faces in this town, this country and this "Late Night" world again?
What slippery slope of corruption will they fall down after being denied the angelic, indelible, circular smudge of the Sharpie marker, which grants admittance through the fraternity house portal into "Paradise City."
So anyway, I'm still standing on the front lawn, eyeing the dealings of "Boy Toy Door Boy," and I start to hypothetically wonder what I would say to him, should I have the urge to be transported into the realm of "Late Night."
Options:
1) Hey buddy, weren't you in my How Things Work Class? Remember me, I was in viewing room A, row 127, seat 15.
2) I'm so much older than you. Give me a circle now or I'm going to break all your Sharpies.
3) Did anyone ever tell you that your motif belt and perfectly faded polo brings out the color in your bloodshot eyes?
But in the end, I restrained from my confrontational fantasies after taking the "Do you really want to stay up for 'Late Night' quiz." To apply to be a "Late Night" perspective you must answer yes to at least two out of the next three questions:
1) I dance. Dancerama. I can't stop dancing. I'm a dance machine. I am just like Billy Elliot -- that English boy in the movie who dances fantastic ballet with all the girls. I'm a dancenator.
2) I don't know where I'm going. I don't know where I am.
3) The stairs are my friend. Window ledges too. There I can stand and see them all, writhing in a sea of overplayed "Gin and Juice." From the stairs, I can spot one I like, and go in for the kill.
(Note: if you answer yes to this next question 4, you must immediately send yourself home.)
4) I enjoy further inflating the ego of "Door Boy" and his compadrés.
(No "Late Night" for you!)
On the walk home I passed the orange glow of Little Johns, which was packed with orally fixated people whispering sweet nothings into their Italian Stallions and Wild Turkey sandwiches.
I had a strong premonition that they had been victims of the subliminal messages in the epitome of "late night" songs, "Take Me Home Tonight":
"I feel hunger, it's a hunger,
That tries to keep a man awake at night,
Are you the answer, I shouldn't wonder,
When I could feel you wet my appetite.
Take me home tonight. I don't want to let you go till I see the light." Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Etcetera Etcetera Etcetera.
A moment later, I was home and getting into something much better then "late night." Bed.
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