Arts

Letters from the Spartan spy: who am I?

Dear Spartyers,

Welcome back for another round at Castleton! This year we have added a twist to your party glass and planted a spy to report your late night extracurricular activities. I am an on campus student, party dweller, and always watching. Can you guess me? Or will my column just become an aid to piecing together the Castleton party blur; like a morning after review of Facebook pictures and incoherent text messages?

I’m sure by now you have all given your annual post summer speeches to your parents ensuring them that this year your tuition bills will be worthwhile and promising to hit the books and ditch the brews.  But old habits die hard and most good stories don’t stem from knowing the layout of the library.

A few of you skipped the speeches and invaded the dorms early to break in the campus.  The first weekend was not quite like last year’s Irene ragers, but few things in life compare to a hurricane party.

With the start of the new year, it is a refreshing to see how little a summer can change. Babcock Hall is still rowdy and ready to sparty on any day that ends in “y.”  The balcony dwellers at the top of the “Cock” are still trying to make their break into the music industry by sound-tracking our lives and remains the best place to catch a bird’s-eye view of your classmates sneaking out of one building and entering another early in the morning with their hair disheveled and wearing their clothes from the night before.

The champions of Castleton Hall got an early start to the long weekend Thursday night and decorated the walkway outside the dorm with a pile of vomit to be discovered Friday morning. I think it is safe to say that may be the last time Huden serves a meal with corn for dinner. Rumor has it a Castleton Hall resident awoke Saturday morning to a similar surprise in his bed, however this was not a product of his own irritated digestive system.

It will never be a mystery where a Spartan chooses to party or the routes we take. Overnight a variety of littered cans and bottles create a trail through campus and the town as, by the masses, we follow the beer-bricked road.

Fortunately, these are all things cured by Huden’s famous Jose Hangover Omelets.  I saw you all in line cotton-mouthed from dehydration and heard your stomachs gargling as you watched the tattooed omelet maker prepare the dish that always revives you just enough to do it all again and sparty on.

Do you know who I am yet, Castleton? Look for more Letters From The Spartan Spy to see if you’ve been spotted.