When Harvard's biggest donors gather together at various philanthropic events, do you think they make fun of Katherine Loker behind her back?

As the Annenbergs regale guests with vivid descriptions of the first-year dining hall's sweeping interior, and the Barkers boast proudly of the magnificent new humanities center, does everyone point and giggle at the namesake of Harvard's whitest elephant, Loker Commons?

Well, they should.

Okay, okay, that's not quite what I meant. Katherine Loker is a fine human being whose remarkable magnanimity has served Harvard in a number of areas, from endowing professorships to renovating Widener Library. We should all strive to be as thoughtful and generous as she. So don't interpret this as some diatribe against Mrs. Loker. Lord knows, I wouldn't want to offend some of you sensitive types out there.

That being said, one has to wonder if she has ever actually set foot in the abode that bears her family name. And I do mean abode, as in Abode of the Damned. Dante's Tenth Circle of Hell. Abandon all hope, Ye who enter here--particularly ye first-years who were tricked into believing that Loker Commons actually serves as any sort of social center to the Harvard population.

Of course, you wouldn't know it from reading the Harvard Gazette--Pravda on the Charles River. "A hive of student activity," one story gushes, while another piece in the University's official publication lauds it as the College's "social hub."

Social hub, eh? Letis take a look. Sure, we have all been there during the busy lunchtime hour, when upperclass students line up for their daily fix of roast beef sandwiches, cookies and other components of the fly-by lunch. The joint is jumping, the air is thick with conversation and laughter, and everything seems, well, social. But this is as much a result of circumstance than anything else. Holden Chapel would be a hot spot, too, if it was the only place busy individuals could grab a no-cost lunch between classes.

If you walk into the place any time after two in the afternoon, however, the effect is draining. A smattering of undergraduates populate the stark, barren environment. The wan overhead lights complement the sterile decor, partitions inexplicably blocking off entire sections of tables from one another. A gov TF trudges in, seats himself on an unforgiving plastic chair and waits alone for students to visit his office hours, though none ever do. Restaurant workers peer forlornly out from the one open counter, looking in vain for someone, anyone to serve. It's like you've set foot on the set of The Iceman Cometh, except O'Neill's drama now includes a giant, bizarre LED screen, the most conspicuous waste of energy at Harvard since the formation of the Undergraduate Council.