But don't be put off--even at the mixer one was able to learn a little bit and pick up some information.
One freshman dispensed with what he called "the common view of Harvard women" and offered his own novel technique for meeting women. Sean "Rocky" Rockett of Hollis Hall asserted that "behind the cold exterior of the Harvard woman--what I call the Secretary Look--is a hot desirable woman. You just gotta grab their ass."
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EXHIBIT B: The party's Disc Jockey, Randy Barth, a veteran of similar gigs both here and at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, says it's always a thrill for him to spin tunes at Harvard during Froshweek.
"I came out of retirement for this," Barth said. "It's their first dance and the freshmen are really up for it." He swept his arm over the jammed floor while a convoy of writhing flesh oozes by doing a Bunny Hop. Bruce Springsteen's "Pink Cadillac" resounds throughout the hall. "I mean, who could pass this up?"
A common complaint on Saturday night hit at the very premise of the event--meeting people. One Crimson Key staffer agreed that many people arrived in cliques and did little circulating.
In fact, the only thing definitely mixed about the mixer was the motives of those behind it.
According to Forsyth, "The mixer, along with the screening of 'Love Story' are our only money-makers. They support everything else the Crimson Key Society does." To a degree, the dance exploits the sentimental desires of freshmen looking to share a meaningful, full-blown Harvard experience by leaving them with an overheated, glorified (because Harvardian) high school bash.
As they used to say during Froshweek, "Live the Cliche!"
And so, by 10:30 p.m., there were no refreshments to be found, only five empty apple juice containers. Food of any sort disappeared early. The party had a mandatory closing time of 1 a.m. (customary in Cambridge). Furthermore, only students with Harvard I.D.s were admitted.
Forsyth had another suggestion for why there were no refreshments barely an hour into the party. "This is simply a very thirsty class," he said. The Class of '89 had apparently polished off 100 cases of Pepsi--the standard order for the whole of Froshweek--by Wednesday.
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EXHIBIT C: Tyrone Hayes' flamboyant outfit would have been well suited to the rock-'n'-ready atmosphere of New York's Danceteria. Sporting a Prince coif and pointy, sparkling shoes, the crowning jewel of Hayes' snazzy saturnalia was a pair of unlinked handcuffs, which he wore as arm bracelets.
Hayes, who plans to major in biochemistry, said that he added a measure of panache to what was otherwise a conventionally attired gathering. "I guess everyone just wants to fit in," he said. "But I'm having fun."