it's easy to slip roofies into sangria, what with all the fruit and ice

Last night I went to an event for young Dartmouth alumni in a bar in Tribeca. Every spring, Dartmouth has an event called Green Key, which is basically an excuse to drink all weekend, as the actual meaning of "Green Key" seems to have been lost to the ages. The party took place in a dark basement, with pitchers of free alcohol strewn about, cleverly replicating the conditions of an SAE fraternity basement circa 1999, but with less date rape.

I ended up hanging out with two people standing near the bathrooms, one of whom remarked that she was the oldest person there (a '92), and the other whom observed that he was the only black person anywhere. He's an '01 who reads scripts for P. Diddy, which sounded kind of glamorous, more so than the various types of banking in which everyone else seemed to be involved. (Doesn't it seem rather uncreatively obvious that the jobs that pay best in our culture are the ones where you move money around? It's like some Chinese aphrodisiac potion -- eat bull penis, get virile. Touch money, make money).

I walked back to the train with the '92, who had recently moved to the East Village from East Timor. (Parallelism makes things sound so clever! It sounds like I made that up).

I picked up a free magnet kit -- a big magnet of Eleazar Wheelock, the founder of Dartmouth, and a bunch of little magnets of hats and shoes and accessories that you can stick on him. The cowboy said it was the most asinine thing he'd ever seen. I'll bet he's jealous that Brown doesn't give him free magnets of, um ... James Brown. John Brown? I have no idea who founded Brown.