An Ode To Your Drinking Safe Haven
Everyone in a fraternity has always had his own satellite house, man cave, hideout, or whatever else you want to call it. Basically, it’s a safe place to drink. Ours was simply referred to as “The Island” — although it was about as exclusive as the Delta Gamma groupie we had.
Let me paint a picture of what The Island looks like. Take all of your worst nightmares and throw them into one scummy, dark basement. The bathroom itself was something out of Hostel or Saw. There were tattered walls, unexplainably sticky floors — which we are going to blame on alcohol and not bodily fluids — and a bar that separated the ones running the party from the overly-inebriated partygoers. It was a shithole, but it was our shithole. From watching a girl get railed by two gentleman in the laundry room to watching my buddy “make love” to something in the AIDS-infested bathroom, I will never forget the place we called The Island.
If you went to The Island soberly, you were going to have a bad time. Hell, if you went drunk, you would probably have a bad time. Although, this place did coin the phrase “island dancing,” which is essentially dry humping with clothes on for most of time. This is the typical dancing you see now, just much dirtier and unoriginal. It’s where I learned my first dance move, “the shimmy,” and all it required was simply putting both hands on the bannister while the lovely lady in front of you proceeded to rub her ass on your boner while you simply wiggled back and forth.
The Island was the place fathers warned their daughters about, and rightfully so. The stripper pole itself was enough to tell people what the place was about. All different shapes, sizes, and genders used the pole and very few actually did anything of note, but chances are, if you didn’t remember using it, you would find a video of it in the morning.
What made The Island so interesting was the presence of the Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity next door. It’s what turned The Island into a cultural melting pot in a lighter sense. It’s what gave birth to the necessity of security, which was nothing more than a few wannabe badasses checking IDs while wearing a black shirt with the word “security” on the front.
With the passing years, The Island became more and more of a joke. Although, if you wanted meaningless sex and had little to no standards, it was still the place to be. I will admit that I once woke up with no recollection of the previous night only to have landed myself a formal date who I would not touch with a ten-foot pole soberly. The Island was also surprisingly the first place I told a girl that I loved her — it didn’t last long, which was probably for the best. The last place you wanted to meet a future wife was The Island.
The Island has too many different stories to fit into a column — they belong in a novel. Although, the novel would never see the light of day because the stories are so obscene, a publisher would never touch it. From watching a new member actually do a naked lap to earn a signature to watching a woman actually Zamboni off the disease-ridden basement floor, I will forever be scarred for life with both of these terrifying memories.
The Island is no longer with us, which is a probably a good thing, but part of me will always miss it. It’s where Mr. Koole, my blackout persona, thrived and where he felt at home. He was free to walk around like a zombie and still miraculously pick up a girl or two without speaking a single word.
Too many (or not enough) times do I only remember simply walking down the stairs to the dungeon only to wake up somewhere else with pants soaked in piss — oh freshman year. Yes, these memories are not the happiest, but they are the most memorable. They will always give me countless stories to tell pledges when they simply ask, “What was The Island?”
With that question I simply look at them and say, “sit down son, I will tell you of the infamous legend that was The Island,” similar to a seasoned war veteran telling his grandkids about ‘Nam. So while The Island was a place where nightmares became realities, it will always hold a special place in my memories..
We call ours The Farm
10 years ago at 11:04 amMine was the farm too. Are we talking about the same place? Our farm was owned by Jerry.
10 years ago at 11:10 amI really hope you aren’t an AGR because then this would be unsettling instead of cool.
10 years ago at 12:03 pmWhy don’t you actually tell us a story
10 years ago at 11:05 amWhy don’t you read something else
10 years ago at 11:10 amWhy don’t you change your stupid fucking picture
10 years ago at 12:38 pmHaha fair enough
10 years ago at 12:44 pmIs this about the Island @ Illinois State University, b/c there was a satellite house on their campus that is literally how you described this one and it too was called the island
10 years ago at 9:01 amIt’s whatever you want it to be. It’s a fictional reality.
10 years ago at 12:36 pmyour article is somewhat decent and relatable, but the trio of retarded comments, bio, and picture make me fucking hate you.
10 years ago at 7:41 pmit is. with the Alpha Phi Alpha house next door. plus the writer is from Illinois
10 years ago at 3:56 pmHow bout some real news? Also bring back the forums
10 years ago at 11:10 amwe call ours The Bunker. no sound exits the bunker no matter how loud and pissed ass drunk and destructive a brother might get. it also has drains in the floor so that we can just hose everything down. sometimes we hose the women down as well.
10 years ago at 11:10 amComparing your drinking stories to war stories told by veterans. TFM.
10 years ago at 11:14 amComparing anything in your life to war is NF.
10 years ago at 11:18 amIndeed. I recant my previous statement.
10 years ago at 11:25 am#butthurt2015. Lighten the fuck up.
10 years ago at 12:12 pmI agree too, did it for dramatic effect. Sorry for anyone I have offended. And apologizing, NF, oops.
10 years ago at 11:31 amTBolenM
10 years ago at 11:38 amAdiwans is a peasant
10 years ago at 2:13 pmBeing a gentleman on the battlefield and a savage in the officers club. TFM.
10 years ago at 11:25 amWe called our The Cargo Room. Actually our house was nicknamed The Brothership. Whenever we were having a party the Secretary or President would send out a text saying: “Everyone to The Brothership now, precious cargo (slams) on board”. Those were the times.
10 years ago at 11:38 amOurs is called The Coop. Formerly a chicken coop renovated into a full-blown party palace.
10 years ago at 12:00 pmThis article is shit. Every geed gets a shitty rental property with his high school buddies that they can party in. Also, getting so drunk that you piss yourself usually ends up with a picture of you on fail friday. NF.
10 years ago at 12:13 pmWhy thank you. I see you have a very original picture of alcohol bottles as your profile pic. Imagine you don’t put your real face in it because…well no need to be mean. Thank you for your delightful critique, have a nice day.
10 years ago at 12:27 pmHoly shit its Aaron Rodgers!
10 years ago at 3:10 pmDon’t understand the hate on this article. I had a few good laughs and it is easily relatable. To the haters, go kick rocks.
10 years ago at 12:30 pmThank you, and to the haters, bring it on, I am not the least bit afraid of some keyboard warriors
10 years ago at 12:35 pmI’m with you. This was a good article.
10 years ago at 12:37 pmThese haters probably have ADHD or are bipolar or both.
You just sound like a cheese dick
10 years ago at 3:21 pm