I wanted to kill a lot of brain cells legally this weekend, so, rather than bang my forehead against the cinder-block walls of Fuess House for five hours straight, I decided to attend the Country Club Dance in Ryley. First of all, can I just go ahead and ask if anyone who isn’t drunk actually likes Ryley dances? And can I go as far as to inquire why anyone would voluntarily attend one who isn’t covering it for the Living Arts section of The Phillipian because the general attitude of the students at this school is blatantly anti-art, anti-risk, and anti-intellectual and as such there is absolutely nothing legitimate to cover on Saturday nights since everyone is either doing SAT prep and studying for math competitions or watching hockey? In any case, I found myself in Ryley at 9:00 pm last Saturday night listening to mainstream rap musicians talk about the different ways they can sexually assault women and watching all of the people who normally wear Madras and seersucker and fourteen popped collars wear Madras, seersucker, and fourteen popped collars as if it were something special or unique or ironic. Since simulating sex acts in public isn’t exactly my cup of tea, I engaged in a number of fake cell phone conversations before realizing that no one gets service in Ryley and that I must look really, really stupid. I then decided I should hover around the cashier’s line to look occupied and make people think I was actually doing something. After this whole charade got really awkward, I decided to try to make my way through the horde of sweaty lowers on the dance floor pretending that I was looking for someone or was planning on dancing, but come on, let’s be serious. At this point, it was still only 10:00 and my friend was visiting from out of town and I was feeling a lot of pressure to not make him think I was a total loser (a failing effort, obviously), so I figured we had to at least stay until 11:00. I had just gotten money out of an ATM so I decided to be really, really obnoxious and break each twenty individually on three separate small purchases—a bag of Mike & Ikes, an energy drink, and some Mentos, if I recall correctly. At some point shortly afterwards, I must have fallen asleep on the couch, because a Commons worker woke me up at 11:25 and told me I had to leave. My friend had gone back to my dorm by himself. He was mildly flabbergasted by the whole experience. So, in summation, I love Andover and I love Ryley dances. (Editor’s Note: Dominick is a very nice boy, and is quite skilled in the art of ballroom dance. Hence, his opinion is that of a seasoned authority and should be taken literally despite the fact it is in the Feature’s section)
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