It's the kind of place mother always warned you about. Buried in Boston's clubby Landsdowne St., Who's on First? is the college community's answer to south central Amsterdam. To find out exactly who is on first--and why they'd want to be there--FM sent two veteran writers to the trenches.

Pamela S. Wasserstein

"Hee, hee hee," giggles my friend Pauly when I tell him about my Friday night plans. "It's all B.C. And it's like the sketchiest place ever." It appears that Boston's "Who's On First" has earned itself quite a reputation--Pauly relays stories of half-naked men and women on the dance floor. I am slightly alarmed and also beginning to wonder why exactly FM picked me to check out this fine establishment. Perhaps they expect me to rip off my clothes?

My roommate Emily is the perfect companion for this excursion because she is genuinely excited about it. "Girls night out! Cheesy bar! What should we wear?" She says. Emily raises an important point: Wardrobe is essential--we need to fit in. We take our cue from the B.C. girls we remember from the Grille freshman year, and she sports black pants and a tight sweater while I choose a tank-top and jeans. Black boots all around. We are ready.

"Who's On First" is located a block from Landsdowne Street. We take the T, get slightly lost and finally end up on that neon strip of Boston club-life, Landsdowne, surrounded by throngs of people.

We don't see "Who's On First" anywhere, so eventually we ask a high-tech bouncer at the Karma Club for directions.

He laughs in our faces. We are mortified. We tell him that I am writing an article about it, but he doesn't seem to believe us or even care. After more laughter at our expense, he finally directs us.

There is a line to get in and I am not happy about it. We go to the back and wait patiently behind two girls wearing sandals. Hello?! It's like two degrees out. One is explaining why she wears sandals throughout the year to the people in front of her. "I'm from Florida so at home we wear sandals all year round," she says. "Plus, I think they look better with black pants than other shoes."

After more waiting, she turns and starts talking to me. Her name is Jen; her friend is Stacey. They are both sophomores at B.C., and they generally come to "Who's" once or twice a weekend. They say they come here because "everyone" at B.C. does, and because it's an easy place to meet guys.

We tell them we go to Harvard, and they are intrigued.

"Do you go to the Crimson?" she asks. I write for them, I tell her. In fact, I am only here because The Crimson's magazine sent me. She is confused. "The bar?" she says. A lightbulb clicks. I have made a major faux pas. They are talking about the Grille. "Yeah, we call it the Crimson," she says. "We go Thursday nights." She says that she is surprised that we are nice because she has found that, although Harvard men like B.C. women, Harvard women tend to give them only dirty looks and snobby sneers. We reassure our new friends that such cattiness is generally reserved for Wellesley women.

At 12:15 a.m., we make it to the front of the line. Emily and I are both recent 21 year-olds, so being carded has become quite a thrill for us. But, they barely glance at our IDs before ushering us in. There is a $5 cover charge. A cover? For a bar? We decide this place is a total scam. However, we make our entrance, to the sounds of ABBA's "Dancing Queen."

Established inside, we are nearly suffocated by the heat, humidity and mass of humanity all smooched together. We hit the bar. Beer seems to be the drink of choice, so we go with that. Equipped, we check out the clientele, which is noticeably homogenous-looking. Women wear revealing tank-tops with tight black pants or jeans, while men sport head-to-toe Abercrombie and Fitch ensembles. It's generally a good-looking crowd, and everyone is having a blast.

"These people look like they're fun--at least superficially," Emily says. "It almost makes you wish you went to a normal college." I know what she means.

A tall guy in a button-down blue shirt stops next to us. "Hi," he says. "You guys want to dance?" We are already dancing, so the question seems a little unnecessary. We continue to dance, with him now beside us. "I hate dancing," he says, now confusing us a bit. "I suck at it." He speaks the truth, so neither of us argue. We all stop dancing, and he tries to engage in conversation, which is difficult because we can't hear a word he says--the Backstreet Boys are just too loud. His name is Chris, and he is a sophomore at B.C. (He likes Emily.)

Chris's friend Paul, also a B.C. sophomore joins us. He asks my name but can't hear the answer. "Karen?" No. "Pan? Like frying pan?" I am beginning to get annoyed. He finally gets it, and starts dancing with me. A little too close. "Will you light my cigarette?" he asks. "Because if you light your own cigarette, you lose your sex appeal. Remember that." Wow. I crack up. I whisper to Emily. I resist the urge to say "what sex appeal?" and I light his stupid cigarette.

Paul is whispering to me now with his nose in my ear and his hand on my butt, so I quickly suggest a drink to Emily. "Will you come back? Please?" says Paul. Oh, yeah, we tell them. You just wait right here.

Again, we hit the bar and buy more beer. Two guys next to us ask if they can buy us a beer. The one closer to me is swaying quite alarmingly, and I'm scared he will puke on me. "We could go drink 'em over there," he says, gesturing to a couch where a couple is making out.

We have quite obviously just bought a beer and are in no way interested in joining the couple on the couch, so we decline the invitation and move away, mumbling something about needing the bathroom.

We spot an unoccupied black leather couch, move in and people-watch. A group of women collects their coats from under us, which is a big production. "You guys go to B.C.?" one asks. We answer in the negative. "See, I told you," she says to her friend. Perhaps we don't fit in as well as we imagine we do.

Nearby, a women is dancing over-energetically to "Stayin' Alive." Her tank-top in no way covers her bra (big lingerie faux pas). She smacks a guy next to her with a John Travolta-style outstretched arm. Both she and the guy sway precariously and then tumble onto the couch next to us. They start to kiss. Then they get up and go their separate ways.

Emily spots our admirers Paul and Chris moving towards us. Like deer in headlights, we have no chance to move. They sit down next to us, and start small talk.

"You go to B.C.?" Paul asks. No, Harvard. Aaah, the H-bomb. "Emerson?" Harvard. "Wow, you must have a great summer job, huh?" Sadly, none to speak of.

Neither of them likes B.C. very much; they say it's not very diverse, socially or otherwise. They don't even like "Who's" that much, although they come most weekends.

Paul starts in with the lines again. "You're too cute to be here," he tells me. "Hey, will you light my cigarette? If you light your own cigarette, you loose your sex appeal." Funny, that sounds strangely familiar.

James Taylor comes on, everyone sighs nostalgically, and we all get up to dance.

"I really like Harvard girls," Paul says with his nose in my ear and his hand once again on my butt.

I am feeling like Paul with the great lines may be expecting a little too much and that my Harvard man would in no way approve of this situation. "I'm really actively not looking to hook up," I tell Paul.

Paul is disgruntled and goes off to discuss the new development with Chris, who has received similar information from Emily. "Sorry, it's not personal," I tell Paul. He feels better.

We huddle in a group for the last song, "Closing Time." "Goodnight, B.C." says the D.J. Emily and I are highly offended that Harvard does not get similar props. We bid our new friends good-bye, and head out into the Boston night, pleased with our excursion. It's nice to get away from Harvard every now and then, we agree, and the sketchiest place ever was definitely fun.

Alicia A. Carrasquillo

The few, the brave, the body-glitter encrusted. Those Harvard students willing to break with the norm, eschew the banality of the Square and place their lives in the hands of Boston city cab drivers are few and far between. This week, FM sends one brave writer on a mission into Boston, to the sketchiest of all dance clubs, the notorious "Who's on First." This is her story.

We approach the bouncer and suddenly I'm unsure of myself, my heart starts pumping a bit faster, and my fingers can't extricate my driver's license. A familiar fear washes over me, and it takes a few seconds to calm down and remember that the birthday I celebrated over intersession was The One, the day I got 10 percent off at the Pro, the day I turned 21. I'm golden.

Only two steps into the club, the music blasts loud and inescapable. I realize that the rhythmic pumping is not only guiding the scores of underage B.C. students on the dance floor but forcing my heart into the same chaotic pulse. Twenty minutes and two beers later, it becomes apparent that the cadence has extended its pull to include my entire body, which wanders into the middle of a cluster of sweaty dancers and begins gyrating. My companions join me and before long we are propositioned by a flock of sweaty men. Apparently, one member of the herd is celebrating his 21st birthday, and his buddies think one of us lucky girls should surprise him with a kiss. They are MIT men, after all, so we should feel flattered. One also claims to have seen one of us in a Harvard economics class that he is taking and sees this as some sort of bargaining chip in the deal. I promise him that if it weren't for my very jealous boyfriend, I'd be more than happy to lay a smooch on his inebriated friend, and my friends follow my lead. (Note to any available men reading this: I have neither a very jealous boyfriend nor any kind of boyfriend at all. My number's in the book.) The herd eventually migrates toward a group of more promising prospects, and we manage to escape to a less crowded corner. As the volume of the music completely inhibits conversation, I am alone with my thoughts and begin questioning my expectations of the place. My single foray into Boston my freshman year had been to this very establishment and I had found it rather exciting that night. For two years I had carefully plotted out my return, planning to party in Boston every weekend "once I turn 21." Now that a month has passed since that grand day, I do not find myself reveling in the pleasures of my newfound legality, but griping about loud music, extreme heat and the plethora of underage men and over-made up women. Now that my roommates and I have finally escaped the confines of Cambridge to explore the hopping nightlife of the city across the river, I find myself longing to return to the familiarity of the Square establishments or the solitude of our room. Damn, I'm old.

Two of my companions return from the rest room in giggles. The swarm of MIT men struck again, and this time one of my friends had offered her number, except, "I gave him yours, Alicia." Sweet. I decide that this is my cue to leave. We exit. On the cab ride home, my fellow adventurers and I come to the consensus that the club owners must have favored the old baseball analogy for hooking up: To be on first implies the possibility of scoring. When my phone rings at 6:05 a.m., and caller ID busts the sketch MIT guy, I'm glad it's not me.