Following the first real weekend back at Boston University, countless students are undoubtedly still nursing their hangover-induced headaches leftover from a weekend of partying. There is a certain supernatural grogginess that has fallen over the crowd this fine morning; the Starbucks line seems to be extra long and Commonwealth Avenue is riddled with sluggish zombies. You can even see the Allston mud that still remains, staining white converse everywhere. Sunglasses shade our bloodshot eyes, loose clothing hides our T. Anthony’s/Insomnia Cookies bloat, and coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee.
And the source of the mania? Frat parties.
It takes a certain type to willingly enter the saunas from hell that are Allston frat basements. Whether you’re a clueless freshman following a leaked address of some random house you’ve never been to, a sophomore taking a deep breath, sucking it up, and choosing the house with the least amount of people you’ve already hooked up with, or an upperclassman with nothing better to do, you are destined to leave a part of your dignity in the depths of Rat City. If there’s one thing I have learned in my time here at BU, it’s that no one escapes an Allston night unscathed.
For my readers who have not yet experienced frat parties, allow me to paint a picture for you: everyone is sweaty. And that’s pretty much it. A source of nightlife entertainment for many, a pool of hookup opportunities for some and an actual fully enjoyable experience for a small few, frat parties take the cake when it comes to unleashing our inner animalistic behavior.
The experience begins on the walk from campus. Girls chatter like hyenas, sharing their goals for the night while boasting about their victories from the previous night or weekend. Immediately, a hierarchy is established within each girl squad, made clear repeatedly throughout the night. Always cold, girls take small, quick steps, trying to ignore the fact that their feet already hurt. Guys exhibit much of the same behavior, but since society doesn’t aggressively encourage them to show so much skin, their pace is much slower and more relaxed.
Upon arriving, you are greeted by a feisty frat boy by the door. Once you say the secret password, establishing your superiority by name dropping — the gates of hell are opened to you, and a layer of moisture immediately coats your entire body. Making your way down to the basement, an underground cave where all sources of fresh air are blocked by soundproofing materials, is when you decide who will be your set target for the evening, destined to be your prey.
From there, the night goes one of two ways. If the night isn’t on your side, you abandon your mission and go home hungry. You walk back among the other lone warriors, nursing scrapes and cuts from tripping down the stairs, accidently getting shoved against the brick or some other unknown cause.
Along the way, predators are still on the prowl, conveniently striking up conversations with other groups headed in the same direction, or maybe taking a few moments to duck behind a parked BMW to vomit. Some are still recovering from rejection, unrequited interest or whatever else it was that caused their prey to escape.
The popular post-party watering holes are of course packed with obnoxious teens gorging on mozzerella stick pizza or some other greasefest of the sort. The more persistent herds travel deeper into Allston to bars where they hope more more prey may be waiting, growing more and more desperate as the night goes on.
Otherwise, if you played your cards just right, you are afforded the rest of the evening to relish in your victory, scouting a source of clean water, aware of your severe dehydration, and weary of how much worse your headache will be in the morning.
Just a few short hours later, it’s morning, and you find yourself in the dining hall, recapping every moment of the night with your posse, and laughing hysterically over scrambled eggs that came from a bag.
