BY ADAM DALVA

In print | February 21, 2008

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that our remaining time at Swarthmore can be counted in weeks instead of months, the long-awaited comeback of the Jolt, which had sunk to Raghu’s backpack levels of Bolivian or the heretofore discussed gauntlet of February romantic torments that deaden mind and loin alike, but nostalgia seems to be in the air these days for seniors—although, granted, that could just be the New Dorm II asbestos. While this sudden yen to think fondly back to younger days may dissipate as soon as the Machiavellian realm of the Sharples water dispenser rears its ugly head (I could write a column about this—how does it make sense for two people with two cups (note — not the popular internet phenomenon) to stand there being jostled by hungry people and each fill one cup at a time? If I didn’t want to turn into the Outcast of Redwall, I would consider doing something about it, but I remain terrified of Sunflash the Mace), there has nevertheless been a marked wistfulness among fellow ’08ers to return to old stomping grounds, and with that spirit in mind I headed out on Saturday night with my hopes soaring higher than Dwight Howard, only to be deflated by the bleakest sight on campus: A dead Paces party.

It is the eternal question of Swarthmore: What does one do if one has pre-partied to the gills and is in mixed company only to find the familiar confines empty, with the dregs of disheartened party coordinators, a frantically grinding couple oblivious to the world outside their pelvises, horrified specs wondering how binding early admission really is and the continuous risk of reggaeton remaining?

On many nights the answer would be to return home and shiver in a corner wishing my heater worked, but the bizarre senior yearning was running so high that I found myself whisked down Always-Muddy Hill towards Option B and realizing that I was about to cross the ultimate nostalgia threshold. As I walked past the urine bushes I was stunned by the number of people who cram themselves into a frat-house on nights where there are no other options on campus. Honestly, I felt like I was at a Puff Daddy-organized basketball game and immediately wished there were a larger space on campus for parties; hell we should do them in Sharp … never mind.

Despite whatever negative publicity the houses have received recently, their continued viability as the other thing to do on campus demonstrates a Teflon-Don-like ability to dodge trouble. (By the way, although Ben Bradlow’s column was only like the fourth most ridiculous thing on that epic two-page opinions spread, it is worth noting that the greatest accomplishment made by a campus news organization this year has prolly been the return of the mints brought about by the Daily Gazette’s hard-hitting report, so we shouldn’t get too worked up over things here. The transfer from the Bone Doctor to M also now has me picturing a shadow-clad 1930s child-murderer debating the benefits of lube, so I think it is about balanced out. Thank god we don’t let people publish anony-mously.) By all rights after the recent scandals the Frat world should have been more ripped to shreds than a College Republican flyer, but believe me, they were in biznasty on Saturday night.

I tend to avoid writing about my admittedly limited experience in the frats because they’re not my tea cup and I know there are people who swear by them (and later at them), but I can say that I admire their approach to dating. To this day the frat-boy en masse non-cross-dressed storming of my sophomore year Sager at 1:30 remains a maneuver so efficient that even Omar Bradley would nod in approval. That room was so full of people hooking up by 1:45 that I felt like I was the bathroom sink in the Escape music video. The apparently legendary “graffiti party” is another masterstroke. Essentially, there are a bunch of people walking around with phallus substitutes marking their territory with various semi-explicit drawings and, as space fills on white t-shirts, having no choice but to enter more risque territory. I couldn’t help noticing in comparison to various women that the queue forming to write on my paper-white skin was non-existent and thus realized again that I should have pledged freshman year. Kudos.

Now, despite my last paragraph, I should mention that the party was pretty fun, with free tomato juice, a marginally well DJ-ed dance floor and a huge number of seniors who seemed to have been bitten by the same nostalgia bug that got me. The next time Paces is empty I might even consider going back, although there is another great Swarthmore tradition that I will soon be nostalgic for that I might indulge in instead: complaining about the frats.

Adam is a senior. You can reach him at adalva1@swarthmore.edu

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