At Fish Co. last Wednesday evening, looking out over the throng of students glistening with sweat, cradling draft beers and cheap cocktails in tacky plastic cups and grinding to the hypnotic beats blasting from the corner speakers, I was suddenly struck by the bothersome notion that all of this was somehow wrong, wrong in that "I still possess some semblance of a self-respecting feminist mind, so I should be disgusted by everything going on here...but oooh, hold that thought, they're playing SexyBack!" kind of way.
In many respects, it really does seem incongruous to think that the same student body which, by day, celebrates political and social awareness and the ideals of a New England liberal arts education would, by night, swarm in hordes to some dirty bar down by the river.
But before you raise your Solo cups in protest, keep in mind that this is in no way an attack on Fish Co. I, like many others, made that inaugural trek down Wickenden Street during the spring of my freshman year, ready to jump into the magical land of the Co. Ever since, I've counted on the dimly lit sports bar with sticky floors for that mid-week pick-me-up, for those post-midterm celebrations and those nights when Tetris gets boring and reading is out of the question.
It's a place to see and be seen, to hug people with whom you're not entirely sure you're friends, to do "a lap" (or seven) and to flail inappropriately, gesturing to your friends to join you in dancing to the Pussycat Dolls' "Buttons." Putting aside usual inhibitions, there's something mesmerizing and intoxicating about hitting the dance floor knowing that, first off, no one will even be able to see you beneath the dark pulsating lights and, second, few will remember it on Thursday morning.
To be sure, if there's a place where the drama level erupts - where Brown morphs into an episode of "As the Brown Turns" or "General Brownspital" - this is it. The sheer volume of soap opera plots involving Brunonians that unfold every Wednesday night would, if ever reported, give Morning Mail a run for its newsworthy money every Thursday morning.
For many of us, the routine of Wednesday night - the pre-game, the cab ride, the standing in line and the late-night rush to the Jo's grill line - is intrinsically linked to Fish Co. whether you actually went to the bar or not.
For better or for worse, Fish Co., the little bar that could, has become an institution, a place where memories are made, hook-ups are common and stresses are forgotten.
But looking past this short ode to the Co., there are certainly nights when the bar fails to live up to its reputation; after all, there are only so many sweaty freshmen, drunk frat boys, weak cocktails, never-ending lines and spilled drinks one can tolerate. On these nights, it's easy to question why flocks of bright, motivated, worldly students trek off-campus in the middle of the week to a bar that - stripped of its status as "the place to go" on Wednesday night - would be laughable to kids in Manhattan or Los Angeles.
To channel the musings of Sex and the City's Carrie Bradshaw, what is the real appeal of the Fish Company? Are we looking simply to drink like fish or are we fishing for something more?
I would argue that the dynamics inside Fish Co. revive the kind of traditional high school hierarchy that many people are nostalgic to relive, and many others would be happy to forget. It's a throwback to a time when miniskirts and varsity jackets reigned supreme.
It probably isn't such a coincidence, then, that a majority of the clientele each week falls into the college athlete, retired athlete and/or high school star categories - in other words, the folks who were kings and queens of their respective high schools. For these people, Fish Co. serves as an easy reminder of a simpler time. Unfortunately, for others, the response is different, the scene not so idyllic.
Ultimately, the pull of the Co. on Brown students remains strong. Some of my own best memories at Brown have come from dancing with my friends on some random Wednesday night, and I'm sure there will be many more good times to come. But I'm still left wondering: if you remove the friends, the booze and the midweek grooves from the equation, is Fish Co., at its core, simply a vessel for us to relive our freshman-year fantasy of what college should be in all its sticky floor glory?
Courtney Jenkins '07 is nursing a hangover from last night's festivities, just like everyone else.
