If I don't go out tonight, I am going to die. You might not believe me, but its true.
If I don't go out tonight and rage until I end up as one of the two people left in a fraternity basement, playing a drinking game with one die and recycled beer, it means that I'll have given up. It means that I have admitted that yes, while partying is fun, who is to say that sitting home alone listening to Miles Davis as I color code my duo-tang folders for each class isn't equally entertaining? It means that I'll have become my mother. It means that I will get excited when the new pilot for a Baywatch spin-off airs on a Friday night. It means I will slowly rot and decompose and eventually, one day, I'll think, "Oh, what the hell?" and just up and die.
Naturally, I'm afraid of getting old. And even more naturally, I'm afraid of death. But a different kind of fear, more the type I associate with spiders, term papers and the icy sidewalk along West Wheelock, takes over me when I contemplate the strategics behind a night of frat-hopping. Maybe it's not a fear at all, but rather a sense of dread. Dean Pelton knows what I'm talking about.
But unlike Pelton, I happen to be a fan of the Greek system. I mean really, how else I am supposed to kill the time between 10 p.m. when prime-time TV is over and 3 a.m. when all the really good movies on Showtime and Cinemax begin?
My problem, you see, is the idea of going out tonight. Tonight, the first night, numero uno, the welcome-back-to-Dartmouth-say-hello-to-winter-and-have-yourself-a-beer night. I just can't handle it.
I'm missing a script. Where's the program? The answer to "how are you?" is "fine," but what if I slip? What if I forget? What if I instead start talking about premenstrual cramps or urinary tract infections? Will I be kicked out of the Greek System faster than Beta?
I don't remember who I know and who I knew. How far back do I go when someone I haven't seen for the past four terms asks what I have been up to? Do they really want to know about LSAs, internships and vacations? Or do they just want to know what they missed since they've been away from Dartmouth? Are they going to be disappointed or relieved when I say, "Oh, nothing much?"
This is the night of schmoozing. This is a one-night winter equivalent of the whole week of sorority rush in the fall. Did you get into that Masculine Mystique Coco class? Does the Gap in Hanover carry that shirt too? No, really, how much did you pay for that tan?
Before anyone gets the impression that I am writing this simply to bitch and complain, I'll stop here and inform you of the good news: I have a solution. It requires a revolutionary cultural readjustment, but if you ask me, that's exactly what Hanover needs.
I am going to have to ask you to be a little open-minded about this one. It involves a little borrowing from our friends abroad. The people some of us have come to think of fondly as ancestors. I am, of course, talking about The Europeans.
Now think about it. I only suggest we borrow a cultural standard from Europe the same way we have borrowed their beer (Amstel Light), their language (Hey, Chica!) and even the names of their cities (Hanover, Germany, perhaps?).
It's a very simple process that requires no more than two seconds of your time. For lack of a description in English, I am going to have to refer to this process in pretty much the same manner as our friends the French (the ones who brought us mustard and onion soup) do. I suggest we adopt the practice of "Faire-ing The Bisou," which roughly translates into, "Making the Kiss."
Now, I understand that since the nineties are in fact the Years of the Cooties, "Making the Kiss" does seem a little risky (or risque, if you prefer). Fear not. Making the Kiss simply involves placing your cheek against someone else's, making a "swak" sound and moving on to make headway towards the tap or the far more important people who you really wanted to talk to.
Making the Kiss is perfect because it is simple. It eliminates conversation. It allows to regress to our earlier stages of humanity, when less time was wasted chit-chatting about majors and more time was spent ... well ... chugging.
Making The Kiss is a "Hi, how are you?," "Good to see you again," "fine" and "good to see you too" all in one. Both greeting and response, without the messy side-effects. It is the nighttime sniveling, schmoozing, chatting, gabbing, stuffy head, flirting-so-you-can-drink-more medicine.
Unless, of course, you really want to talk about the weather. Is it just me, or is Hanover warmer than it usually is during the winter? You think El Nino has anything to do with it?
