
Photo: Chris Pickrell, IDS
A washed-up rapper and a poorly-planned frat event get some poor kid in a wheelchair maced by police; a Messianic Barack Obama glides through Bloomington in two hours of Ghandi-like shock and awe before evaporating to Terre Haute; and then my phone plunges to its death down a sewer grate. Another year, another Little 5.
Luckily my last three years of downing tequila being a classy lady during the Best College Week Ev-uh have been, on the whole, a good experience: Nobody died, nobody got arrested, and we all enjoyed the professed point of it all by watching bikes go ‘round in a circle while holding footlongs and screaming along to Tom Petty.
It’s more than can be said for a lot of people, though – walking around Bloomington this week yields a strong sense of…well, “tacked on.” As if we’re so concerned with making this “Best Week Of Your Entire Life, Ever, No Really” truly something for the record books that in the process, much of the fun is caught up in the transition, and a lot of genuineness of the thing is lost: We want so badly for it to live up to expectations that it’s necessarily always going to fall short.
And that’s the way it goes for a lot of things, I think – remember that birthday party when you were a kid that had to be perfect, only to end up feeling miserably sold short? The sentiment transcends right up to college – except swap out monkey bars for real bars and spike the punch along the way: Bloomington was nothing but a big kids’ playground this week.
So absolutely, it’s fun – I look forward to Little 5 just as much as the next person. But it’s the nature of the fun that’s getting skewed here, I think – it’s one thing to enjoy a stupid week and an excuse to act three years younger, but it’s another to slap some artificial quota on there, thereby creating an element of self-fulfilled prophecy that can never be reached, and entailing that we will always, always, always be slightly disappointed.
So sure, enjoy it. But there’s not much to be said for people waiting in 15-minute-long lines in the freezing rain, only to stand smooshed up against our college compatriots, plastic cup in hand, in a room that’s slightly smelly, over fire code, and too loud to hear anything anyway. It’d be infinitely more enjoyable if this almost-militant notion of “WE MUST HAVE THE ENCYCLOPEDIC EXPERIENCE OF LITTLE 5” didn’t flood the server with stiletto-clad input: all we end up with is a higher person-per-square-foot ratio and a slightly hazier memory of it all.