"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 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 is 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.