Thursday, February 8th, 11:14 A.M.: Having handed in my last midterm paper, I am ready for the weekend to commence. I eat lunch at the Hop with a group of friends; we discuss the magnitude of fun that is about to enter our lives. Dance parties, multifarious costume balls and at least 16 levels of decadence, legal and illegal, await us. A few hours later, dressed up like something approximating a tuba, I head over to Dartmouth's version of Mardi Gras. On the way there I meet a woman who lived down the hall from me last year -- she's experiencing three different kinds of psychoactive drugs, she tells me. She would like to talk more, but is distracted by a nearby tree that is, according to her, a C.I.A. operative.
Around three in the morning my friends and I are sucking down coffee at Harry's while Kenny Rogers' voice emanates from the old jukebox, reminding us to "know when to hold 'em." I ponder those words of wisdom and overhear a Philosophy major at the next table explain why Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason" proves definitely that the Stegosaurus on the Green doesn't exist. Eventually I fall asleep, dreaming of surreptitious tree-spies.
Friday, February 9th, 10:40 P.M.: Disappointed for having missed the Wingding SingFling earlier in the evening, I am now swaying to a stuttering techno beat at the Early Eighties Fire and Ice Beach Party. Although I try diligently, I am unable to "get my groove on" -- perhaps I left it at my room. By chance I run into several leave-termers who are up for the weekend; one woman informs me that she'd love to catch up with me, but there are simply too many people to see -- "People spawning people spawning people," she explains. She gives me an e-mail address that I immediately forget in my Milwaukee's Best haze.
A number of hours later a '98 I have just met and I exchange theories on what actually constitutes a Jamaican Beef Pocket. We agree that it is Dartmouth's most postmodern food, and that we are slightly frightened, yet simultaneously intrigued by it. We are also distressed by the new water machine at Food Court. "Why does the plain water have a colored label?" he asks. "It should just say 'WATER.' It's confusing." I observe that "everything is mostly water, except water itself, which is all water." He calls me a sage. It's a good night.
Saturday, February 10th, 7:46 P.M.: Trying to figure out what to do tonight. I consider going to see the Psychic at Webster Hall but decide that he already knows I'm not coming. Okay, there's Barbary Coast and a movie playing somewhere, but somehow I end up at the Drag Ball, maroon lipstick caked on me like sunblock. I see divas perform "I'm Too Sexy" in a dozen different ways. I am quite moved. The walk home across the patches of ice in high heels is tricky, as is ignoring the occasional comment of "Hey, did you see how ugly she was?" as I pass by the various clumps of baseball caps and fleece hats that comprise Dartmouth social herds.
Later I stand in a frat basement while a thudding funk-a-thon bashes out rusty cover tunes upstairs. A guy I haven't seen since Social Issues Night spends 45 minutes telling me how he spent his leave-term last fall "shlobbing flob nobs" -- he's somewhat inebriated, I suspect. Again, I am quite moved.
Sunday, February 11th, 2:31 P.M.: After thirteen-and-a-half hours of corpse-like sleep, I manage to get on the phone to EBA's. I order something with lots of melted cheese. It's a color not naturally occurring in the traditional spectrum, a cross between fluorescent yellow-orange and magenta -- more postmodern food in Hanover. I decide that I need a few more hours sleep. I wake up and drag my slug-of-a-body into the bathroom. I gain a new understanding of "cold shower" as all my extremities shrivel to the point where they more resemble raisins than actual human organs. I go back to sleep.
I awaken to discover that it's now evening. I sip tea and smoke a few cigarettes with one of my next-door neighbors. I ask her how her weekend was.
"I just stayed in and worked on my resume," she replies, stubbing out her Camel Light in the overflowing ashtray. "I guess I missed all the fun. How was your Carnival?"
"Fantastic," I say as I lean against the futon, my hands clasped behind my head. "Best Carnival yet." And you know what? It was.
