Boys and girls (or girls and boys--we at Dartboard are always politically correct), it's that time again. No, we're not talking about Romper Room, although it is a Romper Room of sorts. We're talking about Head of the Charles weekend.
When else can you see little preppy dorks from Choate and Andover barfing in the streets? Like puppy dogs who are experiencing their first time with a fire hydrant, they hop around with their legs up, ready to...well, never mind.
It's always nice to have lots of people around. Especially lots of drunk people. They think they're your friends, especially those big guys who slobber all over you at the Grille. It's not just those little prepsters who have canine tendencies.
But there is more to the Regatta than vomit and urine and feces on the pristine banks of the Charles. It's a feeling of pride. After all, what other university in the nation finds itself in the center of such, uh, festivities? Where else can students find themselves the subject of so much interrogeration by security guards just so that they can get into their own rooms?
Don't forget the parties. That is, don't forget that there won't be any. Those lovable police officers will come in and cheerfully bust anything, even if you're just sitting around sipping sherry with Grandma Martha.
Be careful--if you protest too much, they may bust Granny, that is, if she hasn't been impaled by a flying oar, first.
Above all, be thankful, first, that Head of the Charles is only one weekend out of the entire year, and second, that Harvard students aren't as asinine as some of the other people who'll be wandering around the Square today and tomorrow.