It was just like any other Head of the Charles. There were lots of people. Hundreds of thousands of people. A sea of heads in rumpled baseball caps reading "Brown" and "Tufts" and "UVM" and "Exeter" and "Bowdoin"--all wandering the banks of the Charles, eating sausages, buying T-shirts, watching boats. They were all our guests. And we made the annual sacrifices. Like having to be cleared by a smug Harvard cop before entering our own houses. Like being allowed only one visitor--Harvardian or not--in our dorm rooms. Like giving up the right to have alcohol delivered. So as Harvard cop cars followed the Blanchard's liquor store van around preventing them from bringing us alcohol, we just sucked it all up. We feverishly filled out guest pass cards for our friends, found cars to retrieve our kegs (they didn't ban booze altogether--just its delivery to inconvenience us), and waived our personal liberties. All of which contributed to the most annoying few days of the school year. The Head, far from being the weekend-long party it once was, has become an opportunity for Harvard administrators to play the role of Fascist Dictator with impunity. We're just glad it's over.