By now Dartmouth's lack of social options has been the subject of enough discourse that it's a cliche. But I think characterizing Dartmouth social life in terms of its quantity of options misses the point -- if you check your Weekend Update frequently enough you'll notice plenty of parties every Friday and Saturday. No, quantity's not the problem. Quality, however, is a different story.
Understand, I don't mean to sound socially pretentious; going out to be with other people should be an inherently good and healthy experience. Human beings are naturally social animals, and a good party can be a fantastic, convivial, super-ecstatic Funfest, but only under the right circumstances. Such circumstances are seldom to be found at Dartmouth these days, and it doesn't matter whether you're at a fraternity or a sorority or a co-ed, or even somebody's rustic off-campus palace, because the same problems inevitably arise.
The worst part is the crowd. At a party the crowd is ubiquitous, mauling you on the dance floor, stuffing you in the basement, excluding you from the bathroom. The size and intensity of this crowd always seems disproportionate: it's not like we're waiting to get the autographs of all the Baldwin brothers or something. It's just a college party.
So why do so many people bother? Apparently the Dartmouth need for human contact extends beyond the bounds of mere friendship. People are looking for romance, and many of them seem willing to accept it even in its sloppiest incarnation. It often starts on the dance floor, perhaps with a few Swayze-esque moves to an inscrutable techno beat. This past weekend my house threw a big disco party, and I found myself working the door roundabout 1 a.m. Before me stood this shivering, teeth-chattering throng of people, all waiting patiently just to get inside. I mean, we weren't offering Free Candy or Universal Enlightenment -- inside it was sweaty and claustrophobic, just a lot of people dancing in an extremely small space.
I can only speculate about those people's motives. It's entirely possible that many of them were there because they genuinely like disco dancing, or writhing, as the case may be. And many of them may have also been interested in pursuing some nebulously-defined romantic end. It's not the goal itself that disturbs me, it's the indignities they were willing to endure in pursuit of it. The freezing cold of the outside followed by the extreme heat of the inside, the lack of any comfortable breathing space, the stench created by so many sweating people packed into such a tiny space -- this is supposed to be a party, not a subway riot.
And the indignities don't end on the dance floor at your average party. Getting a beer, for instance. First there's that descent into and through the basement. Squeezed against the wall, my hands stuffed deep into my pockets lest I accidentally sexually harass any of the people standing next to me, unable to expand my chest cavity more than a centimeter to breathe, I wonder, how badly do I want this beer? Sure, I'm thirsty, but am I willing to asphyxiate for it? My beer or my life?
Finally I reach the bar. A hand's gripping my shoulder stops me. A gruff voice speaks: "Dude, it's cool, but you have to wait." At least he calls me "dude." The pushy guy next to me is merely "fella." "Hey, relax there, fella, you don't want to cause a problem." Yeah, fella, don't take this personally, but you're pretty much gonna have to leave, so don't let the door hit you on the way out, dude.
And it isn't just hard on the visitors; whoever's throwing the party gets burned, too. I remember a party at a certain sorority where people threw snowballs at the house. Frat brothers invariably find their carpets, pool tables, shoes and other such possessions to be the victims of a harried reverse peristaltic mess. You wake up the next morning and cigarette butts line your hallways like a flower garden. Random slobs are passed out on your couch. The house dog, having been slipped an obscure chemical composite by one of last night's Merry Prankster guests, is now schizophrenic. Suddenly parties don't seem quite as rewarding as they once did.
And yet, despite all the indignities, I and many others continue to participate in this social scene. What else are we going to do? It's existential, really -- Drinking and Nothingness. As Sisyphus pushes his boulder uphill, so do I seek an enjoyable, well-populated-but-not-too-crowded party. And as his boulder must eventually fall to the bottom of the hill, so must I eventually find myself negotiating a sludge-caked toilet in the thick fog of someone else's beer-induced halitosis at 2 in the morning.
So it goes.
