By Maria Michelli

By Becky Polini

The men are trashy, the women drunk. The lights are just low enough that the sloppy girl sitting across from the equally sloppy guy can’t tell if his looks warrant him a trip back to her place later, but chances are she’ll give him a shot anyway.

It’s Saturday night at Pennsylvania’s Media Inn, and I’m dressed to kill. With my parents.

Dad, already four Rolling Rock Green Light girly-beers deep from dinner, orders himself another as he flips through the binder of songs. Why he bothers perusing is a mystery to me. Mom and I both know what he’s going to sing — Chicago’s “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” He’ll write his name on the song request slip not as Dennis, but Grady — a tribute to his dream brand of boat, the Grady White.

Yep, Chicago is a Grady-given. He’d already practiced in the living room twice before we left, and in the car on the way to dinner. Not to mention he and Mom have been going to karaoke every Saturday night for the past two years and he has yet to sing anything else.

The question tonight, however, was about me. As Ace Haney, the regular Saturday night DJ, approached the table to talk to my parents, I couldn’t help but feel flushed.

He politely shaked hands with Dad, who he thought to be legitimately named Grady, and gave Mom a kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you again,” he says. I sat silently.

“You singing this time, little lady?” he says.

I had a decent voice, I knew that much. But I was certainly only at my best when singing in my dented ’97 Pontiac Sunfire, windows up — I get nervous even saying “here” when a professor calls roll. Could this performance be completed in front of the 100 whiskey-weary patrons of the inn?

“She sure is!” Dad says.

I kick him. Hard.

“We’ll see,” I say. “I have to pick a song that won’t make me sound like an idiot.”

Great. In the world of karaoke I’ve done the equivalent to a marriage proposal — I’ve committed myself to sing. And I had witnesses.

I flipped through the bible of song choices, which weighed a good 20 pounds. No titles seemed to be screaming “Sing me and you’ll get discovered! Sing me and your life will never be the same! Sing me and the man of your dreams will walk through the door, whisk you off your feet and buy you that Italian Greyhound you’ve always wanted!”

I should have thought about this earlier.

Aguilera, Christina? No. Beatles, The? No. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young? No no no.

“Why not Jewel?” Mom says. “I hear you singing her songs all the time.”

I guess I could do “Who Will Save Your Soul,” I tell her. I did always like the music video.

“Great! We’ll put you down for Jewel,” Dad says. “You gotta get your song in early, secure your spot.”

He grabs a request slip and writes down my name, Jewel’s name and the song title. He puts it on the bottom of Ace’s pile, which isn’t thick with requests enough to ease my nerves.

I’m in. Fantastic. Not only am I engaged, I’ve just walked down the aisle.

“Next up we’ve got Grady,” Ace says in his radio-announcer voice. “After that we’ll hear Misty, followed by Becky singing for her first time.”

What? That’s hardly enough time to mentally prepare. This sucks, I think to myself.

I sit, jaw clenched, for the next eight minutes while Dad sings Chicago and Misty sings Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel.”

Misty’s voice is pretty. Is my voice pretty? Am I really going to screw this one up big time? Is anyone here even sober enough to know what’s going on?

Did my deodorant stop working? Yes. Crap.

Dad signals the bartender for another beer, orders my mom another Chardonnay with rocks on the side, and leans across the table.

“You have to hold the mic close to your mouth,” he says. “And stand tall.”

My dad’s been in about 16 bands since he was in college. He’s a natural performer with a great singing voice — very resonant, he’d tell you.

Ace’s voice booms through the slurred speech of the rowdy middle-aged crowd, announcing it’s my turn to sing.

I wobble out of my chair, cursing myself for wearing heels because if I fall and manage to make a jackass out of myself before I even get on stage, my karaoke days are through.

I make it in one piece. It’s hot on stage, the lights are certainly a higher wattage than what I’m used to and the microphone smells like cigarettes and beer. Looking up, I realize I can’t seem a damn thing except the outlines of mullets and that DayGlo green jacket hanging on the back of the bleached-blonde’s chair. Perfect. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me, right?

Jewel’s familiar bass line starts. At this point the mic is about to slip out of my sweaty hands and I’ve convinced myself I’ve developed a slight case of carpal tunnel.

Oh. My. God. I. Want. To. Die.

I have two choices. Do sing, don’t sing. Do sing, don’t sing.

“Yeah Bec-keeeee!” I hear Dad say. Ace is in the corner smiling.

Alright, here goes my virginity…

“People livin’ their lives for you on TV, they say they’re better than you and you agree,” I sing. And it’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be, not as if the Jager-bombed audience is going to remember anything in the morning.

Before I know it, it’s over. I’ve opened myself up to a whole new realm of white trash and been whored-out to the karaoke craze.

Dad, grinning proudly, tips his girly beer towards me as I walk back to the table.

“I ordered you a drink,” he says. “How ya feel? Ya feel good?”

I do.

By Alex Honeysett

We stand outside the theater hall. Neither of us moves as we cling to our sanity before entering. Girls’ perfume floods out of the theater doors. Holly thinks she going to pass out. I think I’m going to cry. We grab hands and walk through the entrance. No turning back now.

We’re greeted by all forms and ages of the female gender. Pre-pubescent teens gather in large circles. High-pitched screams echo throughout the entrance hall. Holly holds her ears and shakes her head. Poor thing.

Twenty-somethings gather around the bar, dressed in New York City club attire: high heels, long earrings and glitter. Glitter on their eyelids, glitter on their shirts, glitter on their purses, glitter on their shoes. Holly is still covering her ears. I avert my eyes.

Middle-aged women are sprinkled throughout the crowd. Some are clearly mothers. Some are clearly not. Most are drunk.

I spot four boys. One is being yelled at by his highly intoxicated girlfriend about his “lack of appreciation for good music.” Another is taking shots by the bar, holding the hand of a glitter girl. Boy three and four are holding eachother’s hand. Holly resumes holding mine. She still looks like she’s going to pass out.

“OMIGOD. OMIGOD!,” screams a young girl, standing in front of the t-shirts. “He is like, SO beautiful.” Her friends resume their high-pitched screaming. Holly goes to the bar.

We have traded in our weekend night for a trip to Upper Darby, Pa., sharing an iPod on the one and a half hour trip listening to Nick Lachey’s new CD so as to get the “total concert experience” (I told Holly).

That’s right. Nick Lachey. In concert.

Nick Lachey’s public break-up with self-proclaimed America’s sweetheart Jessica Simpson has catapulted him into A-List celebrity. Having once been a member of the boy-band 98 degrees, Lachey began his solo career with the CD “SoulO” in 2001. It failed, miserably.

His second attempt, “What’s Left of Me,” has proved more fruitful. We walk into the packed arena full of chanting females and a security guard asks two middle-aged sisters to get out of our seats. They grumble a bit and eventually move over. Holly looks over at me, minorly happy for the first time all night. 16 rows from the stage. “Not bad for free tickets,” she says.

The sisters, who’ve asked to remain nameless, are Nick Lachey fans by default. “My son loves him,” sister one explains. Where is he? “He didn’t want to come.”

The lights dim and Nick Lachey walks out singing his second single, “I Can’t Hate You Anymore.” The screaming magnifies. I throw on my t-shirt over my sweater. Holly does the same. When in teenybopper land…

The concert progresses as follows: Nick Lachey begins to take off layers of clothing. Girls in the audience decide to reciprocate. Every fifth girl is crying. Including sister one. Holly and I sing. Loudly. During the intermission she asks me how I know all the words. I don’t answer.

During one of the final songs, “I’ll love again,” Nick refers to his recent break-up with Jessica, screaming, “Godamnit Philly, I WILL LOVE AGAIN.” One girl jumps onstage and kisses him on the cheek. She is escorted off stage by security guards. Holly tells me she’s jealous. Sister one is still crying.

Nick ends his concert with his first, and most popular, single “What’s Left of Me.” The screaming has reached an unbearable volume. Holly and I try to match it but make croaking noises instead. We’ve lost our voices.

We leave the arena pink-cheeked and breathless. Girls and women alike are madly wiping away tears and readjusting their outfits. Coincidentally, we end up in front of the tour bus.

We wait. Holly asks how I know it’s his tour bus. Again, I don’t answer.

Half an hour later, Nick puts his hand up and head down as he walks to the bus. We storm the barricades until the policemen threaten to arrest us. One girl says her “mom would be so pissed if I ended up in Juvi.”

Holly and I follow the tour bus as it turns the corner, en route to New York. We reach the parking lot and get in the car.

As we turn onto the highway, Holly grabs the iPod. I can hear Nick’s voice through the earphones. She stares out the window, bright eyed and smiling.

Halfway through the ride home, she looks over. “Awesome concert.” She laughs, rolling her eyes. “For free tickets…” She trails off and resumes listening to Nick Luscious.

I giggle to myself as I continue to drive.

They weren’t.

By Kaitlyn DeRoy

By Kristin Vorce

I’m not a picky eater. In fact, when I was in elementary school my family nicknamed me “Trash Can” because I was so enthusiastic about food that I would finish off whatever was left on my cousins’ plates at lunch time.

Today I met my match.

I wanted to try something new, so I decide to go to a sushi bar. A sign in the College Square Shopping Center in Newark catches my eye: “amboo House.” Walking closer, I see it is crinkled where the “B” should be, and actually reads, “Bamboo House,” which makes much more sense.

Inside, the hostess seats me at a booth. The instrumental version of “Bridge over Troubled Water” is playing softly, which strikes me as very non-Japanese. My waiter, whose name tag says “Tim,” pours me a glass of water and hands me a menu.

I scan the sushi choices – tuna, salmon, bass, shrimp, clams – it all seems so tame. I want to be daring.

“Yes, I’d like the sea urchin, quail egg and eel and cucumber roll,” I say.

Tim blinks. Immediately I regret my decision. But he’s already scribbled down the order and walked away.

Two men in kimonos chop-chop up my order behind a bar, and soon Tim is back.

He points to some green mush on my plate and instructs me to combine it with soy sauce in a dipping dish. “Wasabi,” he says. “Very hot.”

I’m ready to go. The quail eggs stare up at me like two slimy bug eyes. The sea urchin looks like brownish-orange slop topped with a garnish which resembles carrot shavings. The eel is neatly wrapped in rice, or what the menu calls a “cucumber roll,” so I can’t actually see what it looks like.

I try the eel first. Apprehensive, I dip it in soy sauce before biting down.

“Not bad,” I think. “A little crunchy, but not bad.”

I eat another and then another. “I like eel,” I think. “Who would’ve thought?”

The eel is now the safe zone on the plate, the kiddie part of the menu. It’s time to step up my game. I peer down at the sea urchin and have a sudden urge to bolt. Instead, I signal for Tim and ask what the orange garnish on it is.

“Fish eggs,” he says. “You like?”

“Oh,” I say.

He seems satisfied and walks away. I turn my attention to the quail eggs, which are wrapped in seaweed. Slowly, I pick one up with my chopstick. It jiggles. In my book, the only food that’s supposed to jiggle is Jell-O.

I become paranoid. I feel Tim’s eyes on me from his water post at the corner of the restaurant. The sushi guys chop-chopping at the bar are laughing now, probably about that silly American girl who ordered quail egg.

I opt for the 1-2-3 shove approach. As the quail egg slides down my throat, I start to gag. My eyes water. I try to stop gagging, but I can’t. I panic, scanning the restaurant for a bathroom.

Then I think, “I’m one of two customers in this restaurant. I can’t spit up their raw quail egg right in front of them.” I imagine the despondent look on Tim’s face when he discovers I am not a fan of his Japanese delicacy.

I swallow the egg.

Tim reappears to refill my glass of water. He smiles. “Which one do you like best?” he asks.

Trying to compose myself, I sip some water and tell Tim I like the eel. He says the sea urchin is healthy because it’s high in protein. I guess he’s hinting I should try it.

I bite down on the mushy brown sea urchin. A putrid fishy taste invades my mouth and I start gagging again.

I begin to feel queasy. Now even the eel seems so chewy it makes me gag. Usually I clean my plate, but I decide tonight’s an exception. I ask for the check.

Tim gives me a Bamboo House Club card with the check. Every time a customer makes a purchase, they receive a stamp, he says. When the entire card is full, they get a $20 gift certificate.

I thank him and then pay the bill. On the way out, the hostess grins at me.

“Not many people order uni,” she says, referring to the sea urchin. “You like it?”

“It’s, um, different,” I say.

On the walk home I cringe, imagining the quail egg bouncing around in my stomach. I look down at my Bamboo House club card. Maybe next time I’ll just stick to the salmon.

By Dane Secor

The only warning people had Friday night was a bright-yellow sign that read: “Warning: Strobe Lights in Use During this Event.”

Two hours to show time, the tension and excitement filled the air of the Trabant multipurpose rooms, as people in street clothes sang and danced around the room every time the DJ tested the speakers.

Behind the scenes, performers got into character. Rainbow feathers floated around the room and landed on garment bags stuffed with a cornucopia of colored scarves, and ranks of styrofoam heads were lined in formation on tables, each with a different elaborate wig. The aroma of different perfumes filled the hallway.

“Girl needs to put her body on,” echoed down the backstage corridor from one bathroom. “I got to get myself together, girl.”

Further evidence of last-minute preparations could be heard coming from various rooms.

“Girl, shave that back,” one contestant said enthusiastically. “Honey, you need to Nair that.”

Outside, an hour before show time, students lined up outside the doors, chatting excitedly about what they could expect from the show.

This Friday, students and community members were treated to the third annual HAVEN Drag Show. First-time attendees were in for an experience unlike anything they had ever seen.

Christine Mancini, emcee of the show, successfully stoked the energy of the crowd, getting them ready for a night of dancing divas in drag.

“Sorry I’m late, I was fixing my breasts,” she said as she took the stage.

Freshman Lauren Little, member of HAVEN, worked an information table where people could find facts about the organization and pick up complimentary condoms.

As the stage lights dimmed, Little’s eyes lit up.

“This is so exciting and vibrant,” she said.

Before performers took the stage, senior Kelly Enfield described her excitement at the coming show.

“I’ve never been to this before,” he said. “But I heard you put money in their pants.”

The show opened with an energy-filled dance number from former Miss Delaware International, Sierra Mist. Mist successfully set the tone for the event, with flying splits off a stage that had trouble containing performers all night.

The eight contestants in the show battled it out for the title of Miss Delaware International 2007. They competed in a evening gown competition and a talent section, which was filled with energetic show tunes and monster ballads.

In between acts, Mancini joked about keeping the show tame for the university.

“If Janet Jackson can show her titties, I can certainly say ass,” she said. “I want you to get cut up, act a fool, scream and holla, if I can’t hear you in the back, I’m going to come back out and be angry.”

After a particularly risqué performance from Amaya Mann, who danced in a dress and wig that screamed Beyoncé, Mancini came back on stage fanning herself.

“Baby, she needs to find God and she needs to pray,” she said.

The show had a few wardrobe malfunctions.

Wigs fell off and skirts rode up as performers rolled across the stage, which garnered extra cheers from audience members.

Mancini re-entered the stage between performances wearing her dress backwards, but she played it off well and diverted attention to her hair.

“I need my migraine medicine, this wig is so tight,” she said. “Soon as I find a Denny’s after this, I’m going to eat.”

Senior Jared Lander, co-president of HAVEN, said there was enough room for 400 people to attend and last year the show sold out. This year, the show was officially sold out 30 minutes after it started, and there were approximately 425 tickets sold.

“That’s not even including the people standing,” Lander said.

Public safety had to turn many students away, and Lander said people were switching wrist bands and trying to sneak into the event.

The $5 entrance fee went entirely to HAVEN. According Sophomore Kate Mallary, social chair of HAVEN, the money will be used to produce HAVEN’s drag show in the spring. Proceeds collected there will go to AIDS Delaware.

After nearly three hours of performances, contestant Luscious Williams, dressed in a vintage wedding gown, said she was exhausted.

“I have three pounds of garland on,” she said. “I look like a giant party favor.”

Senior Lauren Stephenson, vice president of HAVEN, said she wanted people to have fun and see the event as a learning experience.

“It’s not just a spectacle,” she said. “It’s an entire sub-culture.”

Junior Stacey Furtado, who was also manning the HAVEN table, agreed.

“Tonight’s just about having a lot of fun,” she said. “That’s why so many people always come to this.”

By Stefanie Gordon

The contestants looked down stoically at the task before them.

With their hands tied behind their backs, their eyes took in the sight of five paper plates, each containing 10 falafel balls arranged in a pyramid-like fashion.

The first annual falafel eating contest was held at the Chabad house on campus and hosted by JHP, the Jewish Heritage Program. Proceeds made from selling falafel to the crowd would go to benefit the organization. The five contestants brave enough to enter would race one another to see who could be the first to devour 10 falafel balls.

Hummus attached the balls to one another, in order to make them easier to consume. JHP also provided cans of Coke to ward off dry-mouth, a potential falafel-eating pitfall.

The competitors appeared deep in thought as the starting time approached.

“There’s a lot of falafel, so I’m planning to attack it from the side,” said senior Brett Wolfson-Stofko.

Rabbi Eliezer Sneiderman, head of Chabad, led the room in a blessing before eating, and then it was every man for himself.

A hush fell over the excited crowd.

“On your mark, get set…go!”

At that, five faces furiously plunged into the white Styrofoam plates.

The contestants chew in unison, taking breaks only to breathe or take small sips of soda.

The falafel and hummus soon blended into a thick, brown paste that covered their faces and hair.

Sophomore Tami Levy scoffed at the idea of only eating ten, insisting that the contest should require wolfing down at least 20. But the critics were greatly outnumbered, as raucous cheering urged the competitors on.

Sophomore Noah Moss was neck-and-neck with graduate student Jason Rosenberg and neither appeared close to bowing under pressure.

Moss, a newcomer to the JHP scene, came armed with strict discipline thanks to his participation in ROTC.

Rosenberg is in his last year of graduate school. This would be his only chance to claim a falafel victory.

Back and forth they went, dueling it out in a Mediterranean cuisine frenzy.

Moss quickly cleared off a quarter of his plate.

Rosenberg followed suit.

Moss was now done with half, with Rosenberg only half a ball behind.

It was now down to the final bites.

The audience craned their necks and jostled for position in hopes of catching the finish.

It was impossible to tell who was ahead, as Moss and Rosenberg scraped the last scraps of their plates dry, their heads obstructing the view.

But when the last fried morsel had been digested, only one head triumphantly bounced up.

Moss.

Grinning ear to ear, he shook hands with his adversaries and then raised his arms in exultation.

“It’s the sweet, sweet taste of victory, and it tastes like fried chickpeas,” he said.

For his dominant performance, Moss received a $20 gift certificate to Central Perk on Main Street.

Not every participant met such a successful ending. Sophomore Rob Drowos was unfortunate enough to encounter an example of foul play. In an attempt to hamper his performance, someone had poured hot sauce into his falafel, and the result was not pretty. Halfway through the contest, he was unable to continue.

Complaining that his mouth felt like it was on fire, he gulped down his soda before calling it a day.

Upon later inspection, Rabbi Sneiderman was caught red- handed, an empty bottle of hot sauce at his side.

His only motive for committing such an act appeared to have been sheer amusement on his behalf.

The crowd began to clear out. Moss, apparently unsatisfied with the falafel quota he had thus consumed, paid to eat another helping.

By Michael LoRe

“Alright, let’s go,” I yelled. “Shirts off, boys. It’s time to paint.”

My friends and I were getting ready for the football game against No. 1 New Hampshire two weeks ago.

It’s taken me three years, but I’ve finally come to realize I have more fun being at football games with my shirt off and covered in blue and gold paint than going fully clothed.

At about two o’clock that Saturday, seven of us jammed into one bathroom and began making a mess like we were little kids finger-painting in elementary school. By the time we left to tailgate, our clean mirror and white sink were tie-dyed blue and gold.

I was happy it was not my week to clean the bathroom.

In case you were wondering, we painted “COCKPIT” on our chests and stomachs because Cockpit officers at a prior home game recommended the idea to us. There is no “I” in “TEAM” but there is one in what we spelled and that was my letter. We were told if we did it, we’d be all over the Web site. We were told right. Last time I checked the photos, we were still up.

After countless hours of flipping burgers on the grill, tossing around the good ol’ pigskin and drinking beverages, we made our way to Delaware Stadium, a.k.a. “The Tub.”

I was sporting a pair of stylish blue and gold bumblebee knee socks and a plastic UD football helmet, purchased from the local 5 and 10.

As we staggered through the many tailgating setups, both drunk and sober fans started appreciating our work of art.

“Let’s go Blue Hens,” someone yelled as we walked by, which started an ensuing cheer and chant. I didn’t think painting yourself blue would automatically draw everyone’s attention to you, but I was wrong.

Even though I had everything but my shirt on, I felt completely naked as I sensed the pairs of eyes on us as we walked through the parking lot.

I felt like a celebrity, as parents instructed their children to take a picture with us spelled out. Out of all of the things yelled to us, if memory serves me correctly, the number one question was, “What do you guys spell?”

Once inside the stadium, I immediately got caught up in the atmosphere. My friends and I quickly grabbed some territory right up against the fence, deemed the VIP row, an ideal spot for TV cameras and catching field goals during pregame warm ups.

Countdown to kickoff was a whole 60 minutes away when we arrived, so we decided to kill time by pumping up the students behind us. It seemed every few minutes a chant would start, but once fans realized the game didn’t start for at least 40 minutes, they sat down.

Students who stand in the VIP row are usually covered in blue and gold paint, as we were, a guy in a monkey mask and another one dressed as a chicken. In the game against New Hampshire, one student even wore a “Nacho Libre” mask.

As the time slowly ticked off the scoreboard, another guy dressed as a banana came running by with the monkey chasing after him.

Only in the Cockpit can you see people dressed as monkeys, luchador wrestlers and bananas. With all these animals, it looked more like a circus than a football game.

Wearing paint, costumes or simply hoodies, all students chanted and yelled in unison at basically anything that moved on or around the field.

Some of the more popular chants used against New Hampshire were: “Everybody knows, [insert team name] blows,” “Go Omar, go Omar, go!” and of course the always funny “Ref beats his wife.”

As crazy as the student section was, it had a softer side that came out during the Marching Band’s rendition of the National Anthem, Delaware fight song and alma mater.

Helmets, hats and wigs all came off when the songs played.

Being in the Cockpit was like riding on a roller coaster at Six Flags. You experience extreme jubilation when Quarterback Joe Flacco throws a touchdown pass, but then suddenly crash and curse when the ensuing kickoff is returned for a score. Both happened that night.

By the end of the game, my body was shaking. It might have been the adrenaline running through my veins after the heartbreaking loss, or the fact that it was 50 degrees outside and I was half-naked.

Slowly, my friends and I trudged back to our cars to head home. Maybe next time I thought, maybe next time.

By Lori Goldson

“The first person coming to the stage is Lori.”

September 22 was a day of reckoning. Students held S.P.I.T. for the first time of the new school year, and I was the first victim of the open mic night.

It was day like no other as I had to ask even myself the unthinkable question — was I going to step to the mic at a Stimulating Prose Ideas and Theories open mic for the first time and allow, my peers, friends and foes to find out I have a voice?

Since the beginning of my college career I had seen it done, and always admired those with the audacity to potentially humiliate themselves. My never-ending fear of fumbling my words, forgetting how to speak, or going brain dead and cracking my skull after a huge plop to the floor kept me from performing for four years. Nope, open mic poetry was better left to the professionals.

The throbbing bass of hip-hop music thumping through Trabant’s multipurpose rooms ran rapids in my veins. The pounding of my heart grew stronger and the music got louder as I got closer.

The night would be a milestone for me. If all went well, I would finally gain some renown. If I choked, I’d just fade back into the mist from which I came.

The event hadn’t begun yet, so I took the time to prepare myself and rub elbows with my friends. I knew if they showed confidence in me, the night would go a little smoother and, hopefully, faster.

Beats continued to vibrate up my wobbling legs. My pulse pumped through my body. Nerve-wrecking glares were thrown my way from a sea of students who didn’t know me. My heart continued to pound.

S.P.I.T. member Tyanna Hadley welcomed me. Member Danielle Williams tagged me with a bracelet and thanked me for coming.

“You spittin’ tonight?” Junior Bryant Gilliam asked me. I nodded and found myself a seat in the back of the room.

Tension sat on my shoulders. I repetitively read over my poem, each time seeming more difficult than the last. My hands quivered with anxiety when I held the paper, and the words no longer made sense. I kept asking myself, “Why did I write this?”

My anticipation brought stagnant tears that stubbornly lined my eyelids but refused to overflow.

My disjointed thoughts were interrupted by the dimming lights, indicating the start of the show. I watched the lights while the pounding beat from the music suddenly vanished, and the emcee, James Daniels, approached the mic.

“The first person coming to the stage is Lori,” he said.

The moment of truth was upon me.

My name rang in my ears as I walked up to the makeshift stage that now seemed 50 miles away.

The number of spectators tripled.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Silence never seemed so loud. I desperately tried to find my voice buried deep inside my vocal cords.

Finally, my brain thawed out just enough for me to recite my poem. I flowed through the words without a single hesitation or flaw. The thunderous applause echoed through the multipurpose rooms.

If only that happened.

Instead, I stuttered severely, received a few scattered claps and tripped over the microphone cord while leaving the stage. So much for popularity. So much for being an open mic poet. Some things are just better left to the pros.

By Steve Russolillo

One hour till showtime.

Junior Scott Pendergrass and senior Mike Husni are practicing their duet. Sophomore Mark Brainard and Jenny Saperstone are dying each other’s hair gray to fit their roles. Everyone else is in their own world, preparing for the performance.

The Bacchus Theatre dressing room, no more than 20 feet by 20 feet, holds the eight student actors of “Lend Me a Tenor” preparing for their Thursday show.

The room is cluttered with hair straighteners, curling irons, makeup and costumes, just to name a few items.

’90s pop music blares in the background. Everyone is loose, joking around and keeping the mood easygoing and relaxed. It seems like a typical dressing room, nothing out of the ordinary, yet.

Thirty minutes till showtime — the music stops. The rehearsing is done, the makeup and curling irons are put down and the jokes come to a temporary halt.

“Ritual, everyone,” director Lauren Winiker yells to the cast.

As everything comes to a halt, the cast gets in a circle and performs several warm-up exercises. The first one involves everyone getting loose by shaking their hands and legs and counting from one to 10 repeatedly.

After this exercise, they sing a warm-up exercise where everyone chants in a round. Following that, Winiker gives the cast a short, inspirational speech.

At the conclusion of her speech, the group grabs hands and has a moment of silence. During the silence, a “pulse” goes through everybody’s hands as someone squeezes the hand of the person standing next to them, and it is then passed on. This goes around the circle throughout the moment of silence.

“We do the hand thing because it makes everyone take a deep breath, focus and stop being crazy,” junior Natasha Horowitz says. “We all have this image of a ball of energy going around the circle.

“It’s really cool because you have your eyes closed and you’re waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to squeeze your hand and you don’t know which way it is coming from.”

The girls and guys separate for the last aspect of “the ritual.” The guys stand in the stairwell and Husni gives a second speech. It ends with them huddling up and putting their hands in the middle, like a football team. They chant “Merelli’s Men,” in reference to the character in the play Tito Merelli.

Husni says this is a tradition that was started a few years ago. The men find something that pertains to the show and begins with the letter “m.” Then they put men at the end of it and keep chanting it louder and louder each time.

“That’s what gets me pumped for each show,” he says. “We love the adrenaline rush.”

Horowitz says the girls “don’t really do anything” when the genders separate. However, she says Winiker got the girls to start doing a “vagina chant.”

“It’s more of a joke than anything else,” she says. “It’s basically making fun of the guys because they take their thing very seriously.”

This ritual lasts no more than 10 minutes, but it always occurs 30 minutes before every show the Harrington Theatre Arts Company puts on.

Pendergrass says the unique aspect of “the ritual” is it is never talked about or explained to the incoming freshmen. They just watch and as they learn it, they start partaking in it.

“Whoever knows it just goes,” he says. “And whoever doesn’t know it just fumbles there way along until they do get it.”

“It’s a unity thing, we get to function together as a cast,” Husni says. “It gets us in the mode to get ready and go onto the stage.”

Ultimately, junior Natasha Horowitz says the goal is to get everyone focused for the upcoming show.

“It doesn’t really get me super pumped up, it’s more about focusing,” she says. “We get hyper beforehand, but this is more about focusing, trying to censor energy and get everyone on the same page. It’s kind of a clean slate before we get on stage.”

As the ritual comes to an end, the cast has 20 minutes remaining before the play begins. Thursday marked the fourth time the cast has performed “Lend Me a Tenor” this year, with two more scheduled for Friday and Saturday.

“Every night the ritual gets sadder because that means its one less performance we have left,” she says.