WORD ON THE STREET:

Spring Break. Key West. Night # 1. "You shook me all night long. Yeah, you..." The lead singer's gnarled locks bounced around his sweaty face. The headbangers in the audience imitated his actions by jumping up and down and bobbing their heads to the beat. I could barely see over the obese biker in front of me. Blindly, my friends pulled me to the front of the room. The band was in the midst of selecting a "naughty" girl from the audience to privilege with a stage appearance. My friends and I jumped up and down, furiously waving our drunken hands in the singer's face. He looked over our heads to the bleached blonde behind us. "YOU!" he screamed and pulled her on stage. "Have you been naughty this break?" The blonde nodded her head demurely. "Well..." he started as he removed his belt from his pants. "I'm going to have to punish you for that." The blonde squealed delightfully as she knelt on all fours. And as we shirked shamefacedly out of Sloppy Joe's, Erica commented, "I changed my mind. I really haven't been that bad." Night # 2. Rumrunners was next on the list. We had higher hopes for this one, knowing that it had two types of live music: a reggae band inside and an alternative scene outside. Once inside, we hit the reggae music. But instead of Bob Marley, we got "I want to sex you up" with a pseudo-reggae beat so that white people could dance to it. We watched the slobbering masses attempt to gyrate to the medley of songs. They weren't dancing, really, just swaying with the opposite sex in between chugs. And in between the chugs, the guys grabbed at random body parts to steady themselves. To the outside. For some reason, the alternative crowd was lacking. Under a sign labeled "Locals Only" lounged the "alternative" singles scene. We vaguely wondered where all the guys were, but quickly discovered that they were all packed into another room, hooting and hollering. I strained my neck, wondering the cause of all the commotion. As the announcer shouted, "Let's hear it for Gretchen from Michigan State!" we realized it was a wet t-shirt contest. But we didn't notice any t-shirts. Or shorts, for that matter. Only naked "professionals" from upstairs. And watching them, we couldn't figure out why the guys were so fascinated by them. Because les professionelles only had eyes for one another. Not to mention hands. Night # 3. I tried harder the next time. Only, I found it somewhat difficult to fight the nausea that came over me after viewing "Lambda Chi Alpha" burned into some guy's arm. "Are you a pledge?" I asked. "No," he replied proudly. "The brothers do this to themselves." Silly me. Five beers and seven guidos later and we were ready to go. Night # 4. Hog's Breath. Drinking had sort of lost its appeal, so we stopped by the ice cream stand before we went in. We sat down at a table and enjoyed the seemingly calmer scene. A frat rat with a shaved head plopped down beside me. "How much could I pay you for a lick?" he inquired. "I don't share," I smiled back. "That's good," he retorted. "You got a good flavor, keep it to yourself." On the way to the outside, we were jostled by the crowd. I turned my head to shoot a dirty look at someone, and I noticed a Penn t-shirt. I felt pretty relieved.

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