Dudes, Where Are the Parties?

Editor's Note: Late Saturday night--in the midst of Head of the Charles weekend--senior Crimson executives heard that somewhere on the Harvard campus, someone was throwing a good party.

"This," they said to each other, "is real news." Sparing no expense, the editors immediately dispatched ace reporter Josh Sharfstein to the scene. The following are unauthorized and unedited excerpts from his reporter's notebook.

11:05 p.m. I am now standing outside Leverett House. It's pretty calm, unless you count the 400 students slamming their bodies against the gate screaming "Party! Let us in! Party! Let us in!"

The five police officers guarding the gate do not seem as enthusiastic as the students. Their expressions indicate they would rather be apprehending a lunatic waving a loaded assault rifle. I choose not to enter.

11:15 p.m. A group of 50 students tries to climb over the large metal spiked fence surrounding Leverett Towers. My journalistic instincts tell me that their reproductive organs are in grave danger of injury. "If one of them slips," a bystander comments knowingly, "it would really hurt."

The crowd disperses when a disguised Leverett administrator yells that the "big party" at Winthrop has free beer. I head to Winthrop.

11:20 p.m. Three large, hairy and somewhat inebriated guys wearing "Harvard: The Northeastern of Cambridge" shirts ask me if they can "borrow" my identification. I give them my outdated Boston Public Library card and tell them that the secret code word is "Zeek."

11:33 p.m. I am encircled by a gang of 30 Dartmouth students outside Winthrop House.

"Where are the parties?" they yell.

"Our library has more than 10 million volumes," I tell them. "And we are the oldest institution of higher learning in the United States of America."

"Where are the parties?" they yell again.

11:57 p.m. People have asked me where the parties are 423 times. I begin giving them the address of my editor.

12:04 a.m. I decide to pretend that I do not understand English.

12:15 a.m. A passing student exclaims, "Harvard has an endowment of $5 billion but can't spend a few thousand for some parties? This is the lamest school I've ever seen!"

I later will find out that this student goes to Harvard.

12:22 a.m. My mind is numb from eavesdropping on some of the most inane conversations since the development of oral communication. "Party?" one student said to another. "Dude!" the other one replied.

This exchange was repeated 27 times.

12:35 a.m. Suddenly I have a revelation: Head of the Charles weekend is not just an important crew race or a social mixer for thousands of yuppie-wannabes.

It's a game. For every college student turned away from a party, Harvard gets a point. For every student who actually has a good time, the students get a point. Score so far: Harvard 220,000; Students 3.

12:48 a.m. I return, disconsolate, to The Crimson. I have spent more than an hour roaming from house to house, in search of a party where I feel comfortable. Then I realize I do this every weekend. I throw my reporter's notebook away into the dustbin of history.