This article was guest written by Hannah Farr ’19. Wanna write a guest piece? Email us at email@example.com (We got it to work! Thanks Student Engagement!)
I’m still hazy on the exact origins of “Ganter goblin,” but like all great and terrible things, it started with a joke.
I think it went like this: sometime last spring, some friends and I were discussing the relative merits of crashing that weekend’s Old K all-campus at 10 pm sharp. The plan would be to roll up, gorge ourselves on the sweet, sweet mediocrity that is Little Caesar’s pepperoni pizza and watered-down Natty Lite, and promptly ollie outta there.
In the following conversation spent riffing on that concept, someone made a brilliant and awful suggestion: wouldn’t it be funnier to just stay? We all laughed, not knowing the truly insidious nature of the seed that had just been sowed.
“Yeah! Like, what if we just hung around until the party closed like crazed little goblins?” Someone said, giggling at the absurdity of it.
What if, indeed.
The rest is history. Fast forward to now, and several of my close pals have made this Goblin-y dream (or perhaps more realistically, nightmare) a reality. I’ve accomplished the feat just once myself, at the 90s party this past fall. In my three and a half hours in the DKE lounge, I saw the following events unfold (ordered here from least to most unsettling):
- Several sloppy, drunken makeouts happening mere inches from my person;
- A boy hearing the opening chords of a song and becoming so excited that he poured his entire drink over his own head and screeched, and;
- A freshman I had been introduced to the week prior doing very explicit things that should not be done in public, and especially not in Old Kenyon.
As you might be able to glean from this list, the task is as emotionally taxing as it is physically demanding. Sure, you have to constantly be either standing, dancing, or pushing your way through crowds of horny children. But you also have to come face to face with the bizarre, Kafka-esque realities of Kenyon life, like watching that dude from your English Lit class try to grind on your former UCC to the beat of “Dancing Queen.”
Truth really is stranger than fiction, my dudes.
My goblin peers have correctly deduced through careful assessment that the best place to complete this journey is at the Ganter, where there’s relatively ample space, consistent access to the outdoors, and decent music. So this past weekend, we made the decision: Space Bass, for as long as we could psychologically and/or physically stand.
The experience was enlightening. With the ebb and flow of guests, so too there was an ebb and flow in my awareness of the energies around me. I felt my eighth chakra open. The planets realigned. My underboob sweat had never been worse. At one point, I think I won a dance-off—which is saying something, because I have the relative dancing ability of a cat with tape on its paws.
For those of you who are waiting with bated breath for a retelling of my triumphant 2 am victory parade, let’s just say I didn’t make it. By 11:30 I was really sleepy, and my feet kinda hurt. You may be thinking, “Hannah, that makes you a total wuss.” And you’d be right. Congrats on that.
The moral of the story? Well, for one, set realistic goals. But at the same time, don’t be afraid to try new things, even if they end in failure. And most importantly, learn to appreciate life: the smell of stale beer seeping into your shirt; the not-so-delicate shove of a drunk girl pushing past you to yell at her friend; the sight of your French AT twerking on top of a table. After all, it’s about the little things.