Viewpoint and photos by Jonathan Mitchell
Editor’s Note: Some Names have been changed to protect the half-naked…innocent.
A froth of young bodies piston and gyrate against one another. A crowded dance floor communally dry humps its way through some macabre display of costumed coitus. Festivus foreplay. A sea of hands jump into the air as a booty short clad civil servant drops it like it’s hot in the pelvic region of a nearby zombie.
A few days earlier an email went out from Sierra Horsley, director of public relations for the Associated Student Council. The message told of a new dress code to be instituted at this year’s dance. The dress code prohibited the showing of: “undergarments, chest, stomach [and] waist down.”
As the dance approached, the dress code conditions grew even vaguer. While the email warned that attendees wearing costumes deemed inappropriate would be turned away at the door, Horsley said that “appropriate” alternate costumes would be provided to those showing a bit too much…spirit.
As students and their guests began filing in the Pirate Union Building around nine p.m. on the day of the dance it became clear that the dress code had been met with defiance if not complete defenestration.
In addition to a selection of great “wholesome” costumes–a homicidal (but otherwise very friendly) clown, and a glow stick waving male unicorn (the rarest of all unicorns)–to name a few-there was also an assortment of tricks proudly displaying their treats.
Don’t get me wrong, this is hardly a polemic against provocatively dressed females. If anything, quite the opposite. It’s an unwritten rule that Halloween is the one day a year that women (and men for that matter) are allowed to show off their bodies without fear of reprisal in the form of “slut shaming”. Far be it from me to add to this shaming. In fact, as a single male-and at the risk of hyperbolizing-I would go so far as to call these women heroes.
They should be hoisted on our shoulders (well maybe not the ones with mini skirts) and celebrated. Not looked down upon and spit on.
It should be made clear that for every inch of exposed female flesh there was at least two inches of exposed man meat. A duo of dudes dressed in slacks, suspenders, bowlers and no shirts-we’ll call them Magic Mike and Ike-made a mockery of the no bare midriff policy. But at the same time they were making broad strides for gender equality…or maybe they just wanted to show off their abs. Either way they are also heroes.
As I teetered precariously on a chair taking aerial shots of the crowd a young woman motioned for my attention. As I bent down to hear her over the deafening “WUB-WUB-WUB” of some dub step song (pick one, they’re all the same) she said: “Please don’t take any pictures of me.”
To be honest this kind of took the wind out of my sails because when she said: “Please don’t take any pictures of me,” what I heard was:
“Hey, fat Harry Potter, keep your shutterbug off my goody bags.” This, as it would turn out, was not the case.
I grunted in halfhearted agreement and slouched off past a snack table advertising gluten free brains which I believe you mortals call cupcakes.
Manning the ones and twos for the event was DJ OB1, as if I needed another thing to ruin Star Wars for me. Mr. Kenobi, if you are still reading this then you are a good sport and I salute you for being able to take a joke.
As someone who adores music and has played instruments for most of my life I can tend to be a bit of a music snob. As such I’m a bit cynical of the Top 40, especially in a year where no albums have gone platinum.
That being said it seems unfair to place this burden solely on Mr. Kenobi’s shoulders. He did exactly what he was hired to do: play danceable radio singles with the occasional “Thriller” or “Monster Mash” thrown in for good measure.
Now that I think about it maybe I was a bit too hard on Mr. Kenobi back there. But remember kiddos: if I strike him down he will only become more powerful than you or I could ever imagine. Can’t you see I’m doing this for you, Ben? Can I call you Ben?
At a tug on my elbow I find myself face-to-face with the photophobe from before. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a top that bares her midriff. For the sake of anonymity we’ll call her the Belly Button Bandit.
So 3B looks at me and she inquires if there will be a website displaying my pictures. Undoubtedly so she can sift through them to assure herself that there is no tangible photographic evidence of her having been there. I assure her there is no such website.
A while later I see 3B walking my way again. This time her stride is matched by one of the security guards patrolling the dance. As the pair approach me the security guard veers a hard left and makes for the door.
“So I talked to him,” she starts.
“Him who?” I ask rhetorically, “him the security guard?”
I feel the rumbling bass threatening to tear loose the last of my tethered nerves. I do my best to fix my face into what I picture to be a look of concerned understanding as she parrots back faulty information. She says something about if she doesn’t want her picture taken I have to delete it…legally.
I take a deep breath and, polite as I can muster, I tell her: “I’m not trying to take pictures of you but this is a public place so technically I could if I wanted…legally.” I would later find out that another security guard had told her the exact same thing earlier.
As midnight approached, 3B again appeared out of nowhere. Her stomach was now covered by a zipped up jacket. For the fourth time in less than three hours she seeks reassurance that no photos exist of her. It is at this point that I feel compelled to understand her paranoid persistence.
“What’s going on? Are you not supposed to be here or something?” I ask, the words tumble out of my mouth as if by their own accord. I’m surprised by her candor as she confirms my suspicions. She tells me that she’s on a “team” that, for some reason, prohibits dance attendance and that photos of her at the dance could get her “kicked off” said “team.”
I take a break from trying to decipher the connotation of “team” to reassure her once again. “I don’t think I even have any of your face,” I say blandly. She then lifts up her jacket to show me her belly button again just in case I couldn’t recognize her with her clothes on.
I thought that was her but I couldn’t be 100% sure until I saw her umbilical ID. Don’t just be sure…be Umbili-Sure.
The penultimate song of the night was “Cotton Eye Joe”. Why is it always “Cotton Eye Joe”? At every dance, from middle school to college, my dance card has been tainted by that song. Did we vote on this? Is that what that hanging chad thing was about a while back?
Do Rednex even like “Cotton Eye Joe”? When I say Rednex I am not disparaging our “overalled” brethren but rather referencing the performers of the song. The version that always gets played is the Euro-dance remix of the single off their 1994 album, Sex & Violins (not to be confused with the posthumous Hillbilliez release, Making Love In The Key Of Sax). The standard, which is about a man “cotton eyed” blind from overconsumption of alcohol, ranked #38 on Blender’s list of the 50 Worst Songs.
But Ben thinks the force is strong with this one and I’ve been trying to give him the benefit of the doubt lately. So what do you say Ben? Now that the lights are on and the dance is clearing out why don’t we go down to the Mos Eisley Cantina and bury the hatchet over a space fizz or two. On me. Plus, if you like the repetitive nature of “Cotton Eye Joe” then you’re gonna love this song that the house band plays. I just have to stop by my place real quick and change out of these assless chaps. Mos Eisley Cantina may cater to smugglers and lowlifes but they’ve got a pretty strict dress code.
Editor’s Note: See ASC’s Eulalia Engel’s response.
Boo!