WE WERE WAITING at a stoplight in Central Square when I noticed two women in long formal gowns waving at me from inside a Shell station. "Pull up," I told the cabbie, and we picked up these women and their dates, crowding six into the legally-mandated space for five. As we careened down Mass. Ave. the cabbie turned to me and asked, "What are all these tuxedos in the Square for?"

"It's Harvard's 350th ball!" we shouted in unison.

"There's no way you could get me into a tux," the cabbie replied as he sideswiped two Datsuns and a Honda motorscooter.

I know how he felt. When the invitation to the ball came last summer, I snorted a contemputous snort and tossed it. But when it became obvious that everyone and his accountant was going to be underneath that big yellow tent on Saturday night, I knew I had to go. Despite pulling every string God gave me, I still couldn't buy a pair of tickets until Thursday. A good friend of mine made two dozen photocopies of the ball tickets and handed them out free to whoever wanted them as "a political statement against elitism," but I heard about it too late to participate.

Now that I was out 30 bucks I had to find a date. Thirty-two women turned me down, including the Mather House checker--or at least, it seemed that way. But thanks to a little divine intervention, Girl Number Three changed her mind on Saturday afternoon.

The next Herculean labor I had to face was Reservation Hell: 4,500 students were on the town that night, and they had taken all my favorite tables. I was at the point of calling in an order to Bartley's when my date got us a spot at a Japanese restaurant in the Back Bay. After the meal of eel and sumo-sized Chicken McNuggets, it was a mad cab ride back to the Square.

WHAT WE SAW did not cheer us. There was a line of black & white clad Harvardians reaching from Johnston Gate to Somerville. A rumour was sweeping through the line that to be admitted you had to be able explain Harvard's tenure system. Of course, this was a lie. You only had to know the Ten Core Requirements.

Standing in line was a great opportunity to check out the more unusual clothing. One girl was dressed like the Statue of Liberty; it wouldn't have been that bad if her date hadn't looked like Lee Iacocca.

Too many women were dressed like they were going to give plantation tours. One group went for the Donna Karan tight skirt look, and so could only dance from the thighs up, while an equal number wore strapless gowns, and so could only dance from the waist down.

By the time we reached the gate, the single ticket-taker was too hoarse to ask us any questions, so I gave him the tickets and got my hand stamped. After showing my i.d. my hand was stamped for drinks. They were offering souvenir stamps in the corner, so I got two of those. And then there were these cute little animal stamps...by the time my date dragged me away, my right hand looked like an airmail package from Karachi.

Inside the tent, we discovered that not only did we not know anybody, but it was a cash bar. Several bartenders would sell you drinks for a buck cash instead of the two-fifty drink tickets, but once again, I missed out.

While my date trekked back for supplies to the Pro, I decided to check out the private shindig that Archie Epps was throwing. I went up to the burly security guards and screamed "I'm Secretary William Bennet! There are drugs on campus! Find them!" By the time the guards figured out what was going on, I was already inside.

It was pretty depressing. The senior faculty was ganging up on the tired looking junior professors, saying things like "How's the weather down there, eh?" or "If you can push an egg roll with you nose across Weeks Bridge, you automatically get tenure." Most of the administrators were watching "Porky's" on the VCR's, and throwing hors d'ouerves at the screen. The few undergraduates present were massaging the feet of the rest of University Hall. I lifted some caviar and a forgotten cummerbund, found my date and rejoined the real party.

WE SPENT ALMOST an hour just drinking and checking out the three tents and the Science Center. Then we danced at the western end of the tent. Or tried to, at any rate. For most of the people there, "oldies dance music" means Mowtown, and most of the moves I saw were circa "Saturday Night Fever" instead of "Stomping at the Savoy," which didn't quite cut it. But even if you knew what to do, Lester Lanvine and his Hat Throwing Orchestra changed songs every three minutes, and they played the same damn songs over and over. By the ninth rendition of "When the Saints Go Marchin' In," I was ready to transfer to Yale.

I drank some more vodka and the feeling passed. I wandered to the disco tent where I recall dancing to something called "I Wanna be Bill Cosby." Then I dragged myself back to the Science Center, where there was huge line of of men and women waiting to go to the men's room.

Looks like Bennett was right.

When the affair wrapped up, I spent twenty minutes playing pop culture archaeologist in the coat room, finally finding my overcoat underneath a woman's cloak made from the pelts of 200 possums. At least that's what it said on the label.

I rambled my exhausted date back to Mather, then met some friends at Tommy's Ralph was back after a long vacation, and to celebrate he threw the same drunk out of Tommy's twice.

Yes, it was the best of times. And when I woke up next morning, I knew it was the worst of times.