I know my picture clearly suggests a man who is the essence of partying.

Just last night I ate a block of cheese in slippers while getting more and more infuriated at my crossword puzzle. The cheese was also “extra sharp.” So yeah, I’m a pretty wild guy.

I’m sure everyone knows this by now, but Syracuse University is now officially the No. 5 party school in the nation, with the No. 1 school being the University of Iowa, according to the Princeton Review.

And fifth is fine. Most of my pee-wee soccer trophies are just that. The more I think about it, those trophies seem a little mean-spirited.

But how did we lose to Iowa? It’s like losing to Corey Thompson.

Who’s Corey Thompson? Exactly.

It’s not that I have anything against Iowans. From everything I’ve heard, they are probably some of the nicest people in America and also very easy to be taken advantage of by any ole con man selling musical instruments.

I thought of my extensive cheese nights and started to wonder if I was the one contributing to the “not tubular” party reputation of Syracuse University. Do the kids still say tubular?

The more I reflected, the more I realized that my lifestyle is essentially that of a Latina grandmother.

A good chunk of my day involves Spanish soap operas. No, really. My favorite is “El Talismán,” which is like “Lost” but even more confusing.

I began to think it was time for a change. So last weekend I decided that this Latina grandmother was going to paint the town red, which sounds like the plot of a phenomenal blockbuster.

First on the docket was figuring out what I was going to wear. There’s a lot of pageantry to the art of “going out.” From my experiences, a lot of the outfits people wear to go to parties would make you look like an absolute crazy person in the light of day.

I settled on a shirt with a very clear Taco Bell stain on it. In my mind it added an element of mystique to me. “What could have caused that stain?” they would wonder. “Is it blood? Is it a loaded Griller?” It was honestly a little bit of both.

Because I’m not associated with any frat, I mainly end up in only the dankest of basements, which isn’t a problem necessarily. After a while, those sweaty basements feel like home. Though if any fraternity wants to adopt me a la “Harry and The Hendersons,” I wouldn’t be opposed to it.

Getting to a dank basement is a journey full of aggressive yelling and strange misunderstandings. At one frat, a brother ran up and yelled, “This is not the house you’re looking for!” I questioned whether that was a “Star Wars” reference, thinking I found a fellow admirer of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Needless to say, I wasn’t let into that party.

Now, I wouldn’t say I’m a good dancer. I’d say that I’m the greatest dancer that’s ever existed.

My dancing somehow combines all of the best dance styles into one. The monkey? Check. Your drunk uncle at a wedding? Check. Intoxicated ostrich? Double-check. But as I looked up from the shenanigans occurring around me, I noticed the inherent good vibrations. Everyone, even the creepy guys prowling the perimeters, seemed to be having a good time.

These were not the feelings of people who received a fifth place trophy. And trust me, I know those feelings quite well. This was truly living in the moment. Not caring that most of the sweat you’re covered in was not produced by you. Or that there is a mysterious bucket of urine in your line of sight.

Because, really, who cares if we’re one or five, or in a dank basement or a mansion? Simply not caring is what brings about the best times.

So, stick that in your cornhole, Iowa.

Christian Unkenholz is a sophomore public relations and political science major. He can be found at Kimmel Dining Hall most nights. His column appears every Thursday in Pulp. He can be reached at cdunkenh@syr.edu.

Published on September 4, 2013 at 9:36 pm