Embarking on my senior year of college, I was on cloud nine. I had the best friends I could ask for. I had ended my internship from hell. I was starting to date someone new after being single for two years. I had just made a bunch of new friends from being a Rho Gamma. Life was good.
I was also still Social Chair of my sorority, a year-long endeaver that most people assume is all fun and games. Sure, the fraternity parties might be a free-for-all, but sororities are on a radically different scale. We have a ton of rules, a ton of advisors, a ton of paperwork to do. It’s kind of a double standard: most people know the boys are going to act like idiots, so it’s fine. But the moment the girls go buckwild and hold their event at a hookah bar, things get serious.
I had just gotten through my first semester with a limited budget. I knew that this semseter would be better because I already had everything down pat.
My sorority had a great relationship with a specific fraternity on campus… I attribute that to the year myself and my co-chair spent hours at their house during homecoming, where the frat president and said co-chair fell in love. Magical. Anyway, we wanted to throw a major Halloween party and figured we should look into the best venue in town.
I guess my idea of “best venue” was a lot different from the frat’s social chair, because he wanted to throw the party at Chicken Ranch.
Oh, Chicken Ranch. Where do I even begin with this place? Every time I tell my older friends about it, they always get so inquisative. Where was it? How was it legal? Yes, these were all logical questions that I didn’t even know the answer to.
The first time I heard about
Fraud Central Station Chicken Ranch was right when school was about to begin. The ranch would have parties there before games, they’d throw mixers there on Thursdays and so on. “They” being these kids who created a start-up event planning firm, mostly throwing college parties and those really interesting club gigs that gain attention only because they’re shilling out glossy 4’x6′ photos with a girl’s ass hanging out. I’m sure they did other things too, but those were the things I remember.
Someone was like “Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes is at Chicken Ranch!” Um, what? First off, that definitely sounds like an event I need to be at. Second, I’m not heading to a coupe. Sorry. Then it was explanined this place was essentially a gold mine and we all needed to go. As seniors, we rallied, put on our best impression of a “tennis hoe,” which resulted in jeans and a polo, and headed out the door.
Just thinking about these memories make me want to chop of my right leg, if that meant I could go back to two Septembers ago. All of us girls would pile in a car and drive from location to location together — most of us having boyfriends, but none of us really caring enough to spend our precious Thursday night with them. They had the weekends, we had our weeknights.
Anyway, we arrive at Chicken Ranch, located in the Stockyards (fitting, really). We get inside after getting our wristbands and not having to show our ID. We thought maybe it was because we looked old, but apparently anyone with a pulse could have gotten the “legal age” wristband. We enter the front yard, as I like to call it, and see a massive around of human bodies everywhere. They’re dancing. They’re making out. They’re smoking. They’re ordering four drinks at a time at the bar. They’re eating this delicous chicken that apparently a gourmet chef, and whom we later found out was the “owner” of the ranch, had whipped up.
After witnessing this free-for-all, we all knew what we were thinking without saying a word: get a beverage. Now.
We made nice with one of the bartenders and he poured us all a drink, probably the only drink I have ever consumed that was made up of 85% vodka. I would have thrown it out, but given all the shenanigans we were about to witness, I’m so glad I didn’t.