"What's going on?" I asked, barging into the DJ room as the music jerked back to life. The DJ explained that there was a loose connection in the stereo and that the only thing keeping the music going was his finger, pressing the speaker wire into the input jack. "I can feel the music going through my hand," he said, somewhat dazedly.

Obviously, the situation was under control, so I squirmed back out into the dance room past a couple performing That Dance They Had to Cut From "Lambada!" to Maintain Its R Rating, only to discover that the speakers in the drawing/keg room were now dead. I traced the wires back toward the DJ room, looking for a torn connection, which I found beneath two very passionately involved people. "Excuse me, you're standing on the wires," I said. "Mmmph," they said, as I gently shoved them into a darker corner of the room. "Hey, that girl is in my Chem class," my roommate volunteered. "She's very nice. Really." At about this time, I began to suspect that I was missing out on most of the party's better moments because I was trying to keep things running smoothly.

This thought, however, was soon interrupted by the realization that people were piling up outside the door and unwittingly threatening everyone else's fun by making enough noise to attract the attention of the House librarian, who lived across the courtyard and spent his weekend evenings with a microphone trained at lit windows in the hope of detecting a party to bust. "Out of the hallway!" I shouted from the doorway, where I remained for the better part of an hour, nursing a mug of Milwaukee's Best Extra Gold Draft Lite while hordes of first-years, who can smell keg beer from anywhere on campus, tramped up and down the stairwell.

Fortunately, the last keg was tapped shortly after midnight, and the crowd thinned out enough for me to squeeze, arms over my head, back into the party. During my absence, several of my co-hosts had disappeared with assorted Women Without Last Names (or so my co-hosts claimed the next morning). Heartbroken that the woman of my dreams had failed to show up at the party--perhaps she was discouraged by the long walk from the Quad, or Mars, or wherever she lives--I took solace in the fact that, at the very least, I had helped bring a few hours of sweaty joy into the lives of a number of people whom I had never seen before.

The moral of the story? There are two. One is that you really won't meet people at your own party, especially if you're pretending to be responsible. The other, more important moral is that with a little innovation, three common dorm rooms can be transformed into a steaming pit of hedonistic recreation; just add Harvard students and stir. I am hopeful that a few prospective partythrowers are reading this article right now, and have been inspired to plan their own daring soiree. In the meantime, be on the lookout for our next event--bigger, better, and more refulgent than the last. How does the weekend after Thanksgiving Break sound?

OVERHEARD

A few of the gems found in pink, green, blue and orange flourescent chalk on the walls of the author's room:

Morrissey Rules--Fuck All Those Who Don't Think So Vote on November 3rd Don't Forget

Legalize Marijuana

Gay Pride

Silence=Death

Trendiness

Booty

Gotta Do It

3 Fat Pigs in an Air Conditioner

Rabbit Frog Pog

Lunch Box

CH3CH2OH

Welcome to the World of the Penis People (Beware Of Strokers)

Mm Ouch