Yesterday I went to a chili cook-off, a fraternity philanthropic event that I've enjoyed for the past four years. The doorman greeted me with a high five along with the standard-issue mark on the hand. ("You're 21, right? No? You sure? OK, fine.") I wasn't in the mood for any sort of bacchanal revelry, so I held off the drinks and stuck to the scrumptious chili. It was in ample supply, as the smells of chorizo, beef and cumin waltzed into my nostrils like Louie Anderson into an IHOP.
The Tex-Mex confections were delicious. I must have had 20 different kinds of chili, each competing to win the title of champions, "Best Chili That Most Likely Has Copious Amounts of Tequila." Last year's winner (Mexican fraternity Sigma Taquito) couldn't get its visas cleared in time for this year's cook-off, so it was an all-American affair this year.
The winning entry, which was absurdly tasty, was from another fraternity. Their victory celebration was a cross between a tribal dance and a beer/whipped cream throwing competition. But above all the hubbub, above all the ruckus, was a familial undercurrent: a feeling that these guys were more than just good friends.
That got me thinking -- families are just like fraternities. Both demonstrate a true sense of brotherhood. Both demonstrate a true sense of loyalty. Both demonstrate how to throw rockin' wet T-shirt contests Thursday nights. Well, my family does. Probably explains why I haven't seen any aunts, uncles or cousins for two decades.
But I digress. Sort of.
What if my family actually was a fraternity? It would make sense, in a way. It would finally give us an excuse for having a kiddie pool on our roof. But more importantly, it would solidify my family's bond with each other as sincere, immortal brotherhood. Plus we'd be able to get a sweet plot for Foxfield.
My kids, boys and girls alike, are without a doubt going to have to pledge my house in order to become full members of my family. Age won't matter; I'll just pick a time to do it. I will know, as only a maniacal father can, when they're ready. The rush process will be much like that of the University -- we'll have an open house, rounds of invites and trips to Atlantic City. You know, standard procedures to see if my kids are cool or not. On bid day the children will either receive formal invitations to join my family or they promptly will be driven to an adoption agency.
The pledging process is designed to test the physical mettle and mental wherewithal of the newest members. They will have to memorize the names of the founding fathers of the fraternity (my wife and I). They will have to drive (or tow in a Radio Flyer wagon) us to sorority formals. They will have to comply with our slightest desires, however strange:
"We want a fresh coat of paint on the upstairs bathroom. You have 10 minutes."
"We want the Special Edition DVD of 'Gigli' on my desk when we get back from errands."
"We want to see a full-scale re-enactment of the Battle of Antietam. Boys, take turns playing Robert E. Lee. Girls, take turns playing Ambrose Burnside. You may use only these Nerf guns and Super Soakers."
And so forth.
By the time they are done with Hell Week -- "We have to watch 'Battlefield Earth' for seven days?!" -- they will know what it takes to be a member of the Collins family. They will have endured the same hardships that their parents went through when we were their ages. Or so they think. After all, the point of pledging in fraternities isn't to come home at 6 a.m. one Tuesday covered in Hormel Chili (though that'd explain why all the fraternity entries of the chili cook-off were so damn tasty). The point is to establish a sort of bond with your fellow pledges that can only come through overcoming obstacles as a team. But families have hardships all the time, don't they? My plan is flawless. My kids are going to be the most tight-knit and fiercely loyal siblings in the world. Still, I have no idea where they're going to find "Gigli" on DVD.
Brendan's column runs biweekly Mondays. He can be reached at collins@cavalierdaily.com.
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