Creatures of the Night

It’s Friday night, and my friends and I are drunkenly speedwalking toward a campus party. Rumor has it there’s a little shindig in Quincy—or is it the Mather lowrise? The Belltower perhaps?  Either way, we hope that we’ve pre-gamed a sufficient amount to fathom what awaits us all.

What awaits us is somebody I like to call my friend, The Sweaty. Here at Harvard we don’t have house parties or frat parties or whatever. We have The Sweaty: tight quarters, vodka and coke at the bar, a couch to drop your coat, a beer-slicked floor to drop your moves. The Sweaty is the heart of our party life. Some say it is this party life that makes a Harvard weekend suck. I say it is this party life that makes a Harvard weekend thought-provoking.

Indeed.

The key is knowing what and, more importantly, who to expect.

The Drunken Host

I walk in the party, and a stranger assaults me with a hearty handshake stricken with drunken joy. Here is The Drunken Host. He is drinking beer from his own special stein, a ritual he has performed for the past seven parties he has thrown. He introduces himself to me and asks me my name, a ritual we have performed for the past seven parties he has thrown. The Drunken Host is a conundrum: so friendly, so outgoing, so caring towards everyone.  Yet, The Drunken Host will never remember you, what you major in or that you don’t have any “freshman hottalicious friends.” The Drunken Host will also tell you that relaxing and partying are what life is really all about. The Drunken Host knows his shit. He knows what college life should be. He is woefully out of place at Harvard.

The Hound Dog

I look over, and Hound Dog (as he is affectionately called by his fellow Milwaukee’s Best disciples) has just “hit up” the joint. Hound Dog rolls into the party with bravado, spewing shocking witticisms like, “Yo dudes, it’s so hot in here it reminds me of your mom!” and “By the way fellas, in that last joke the ‘hot’ was spelled with two t’s.” He normally rolls with a sidekick or two who worship the ground he plods on. As always, tonight is the night for Hound Dog to get, in his words, “bootylicious” at The Sweaty.

Hound Dog and I make eye contact and exchange a sweet up-top high-five to solidify our Social Analysis section-forged friendship. Hound Dog tells me, “Yo, hott party huh? Better than our fucking Social Analysis lecture. Fuck lecture, that shit’s gay.” I ask Hound Dog if said lecture has a boyfriend and he is visibly confused. Hound Dog bombs on down to his natural habitat, the keg. He feeds off the energy from the tap, and imagines the kick-ass deposit-return the hosts are gonna get from the liquor store. Hound Dog pours numerous beers for others, has three beers himself, and then leaves to go play some Grand Turismo.

The Badunk

Everyone loves The Badunk. Even if they can’t handle The Badunk, they love The Badunk. The Badunk is all over the dance floor tonight, per usual. The Badunk loves everyone else. It don’t matter who you are or what you do, she loves her booty and wants you to love it too. The Badunk is the girl who has just taken some dude and grizzly-bear-tossed his ass against the wall. The Badunkee is in a daze for a few seconds as The Badunk proceeds to grind the shit out of him. And, by the second verse of “Gansta’s Paradise,” he is just loving the ride. She moves back and forth, up and down, like a lust-charged roller coaster. I’m mesmerized by her ass-shacking fury, but I quickly stop staring as I see that The Badunk is coming for me. She has danced a mere one song with her last badunkee, and may or may not return to him. For The Badunk, you see, the booty ain’t fun unless all can have some.

The Hip-Hopper

I’ve been dancing to Busta Rhymes and Nelly for a few hours, working myself into a drunken groove that feels fresh and fluid. Then the Hip-Hopper struts his shit up in here. All of the sudden my dance moves are feeling inadequate and meager. Unlike most, the Hip-Hopper hasn’t gone directly from the entrance to the keg. He needs no alcoholic transition from door to dance, it’s on from the start.

C-walking and robotting with absolutely no visible signs of trying too hard to be cool, the Hip-Hopper is totally in his element at The Sweaty. As I observe The Hip-Hopper, I find his most admirable trait to be the apparent lack of creepiness. He’s there for the music and the dance, not to perv on the opposite sex! So it doesn’t matter when you don’t know The Hip-Hopper and he grinds up on you. It just don’t. Within a matter of minutes, a chanting circle has formed around The Hip-hopper, and he knows that he is king.

The Backside Grinder

The Sweaty is most fun when you find a big group of close friends. I’ve found a group of girlfriends, and we have been getting down now for a couple tracks. Things are all good and well. When there’s grinding it’s of the friendly variety. Then The Backside Grinder sleezes on in, unannounced to his target. Said target is dancing, and then all of the sudden, Bam!  Backside Grinder Attack! He ensnares her from behind and starts grinding on her.  She does a half turn of her head to see if she knows him, and when she doesn’t I see the look of panic grow on her face. But The Backside Grinder can’t see this anxiety, and maybe he wouldn’t care even if he could. All that he knows in his ridiculously hammered state of mind is that she loves dancing with him. Here one finds an inverse relationship between The Backside Grinder’s level of horniness and the girl’s level of comfort. The problem I’m having with this situation is that I know The Backside Grinder personally. He assumes he has Backside Grinder License because he knows me, and I know these girls. I know in my mind that this particular Backside Grinder isn’t a creep, but his current alcohol induced ape-aggression isn’t helping his cause. If there is one thing we can all learn from The Backside Grinder is that sneak attacks only aid your cause in a thumb war—not on the dance floor.

That Group of Girls

The Backside Grinder has ruined the fun for the moment, but new excitement has arrived with That Group of Girls. That Group of Girls are full of energy and fun, and college life is totally tipsy and keen on them. My friend and I mosy over to their circle and initiate dancing contact. At first, they appear receptive and willing to dance.  Eventually, my friend and I each pair off with one of the girls and the dancing is hot. Yet after a song or two, That Group of Girls automatically go into Secret Service Mode. I suddenly am made to feel that I am not dancing with this girl, but rather making an assassination attempt on her life. Her secret service agent friends advance upon us and quickly drag the girl away to dance with them. They have succeeded in protecting her from the dangers I pose.

The Guy Who Can Swing Dance

It’s 1:45, and for three hours and 45 minutes, The Guy Who Can Swing Dance has been patiently waiting while others have thrusted and ground their way to hip-hop-glory. Now it’s his turn. The speakers begin to throb the opening sounds of “Zoot Suit Riot” and he lindy hops to the center of the floor.

Slight in stature but blessed with the sweetest of moves, The Guy Who Can Swing Dance turns on the charm. The ladies love him.  Damn him! Not one of his steps is out of step, and the whole room knows it. He floats around the dance floor with partner in tow like a sexual butterfly. There he is, spinning and winning all the girls. I would kick his ass if it wasn’t for the huge man-crush I have at the moment. I watch The Guy Who Can Swing Dance and wish I had chosen the “dance unit” in 10th grade gym class instead of dodgeball.

2 a.m. has finally come, and the music stops. I’m sad because I haven’t seen all my friends. Notable absences have included, but are not limited to, The Surprise (the shy person in section who morphs into a total party animal), The Alternative (turns every hip-hop song into a Nirvana-esque mosh-pit) and The Guy Who Jokes About Doing Hard Drugs In The Bathroom. Oh well. Saturday is another night.  I’m going to Tommy’s now.  What?  It’s closed?  Shit.

Matthew J. Amato ’06 is a History and Literature concentrator in Pforzheimer House.  He has actually never been to a party at Harvard.