Photos

It was all that and more. Apres fireworks, we raged up the seaboard to unintelligible directions only to find that chez Rugga lies nowhere near boston. Turns out we have only three smocks and no mu-mus. Come sunrise, 69 white-on-black will have to suffice. Computer golf, salsa mala and ruined lungs insured a minimal night's sleep.

We rubbed our eyes, ate bagels and scoured Boston for a pair of underwear to contain the massiveness of John Sheppard. We found Sam and Trevor; the former still legend, the latter in blissful wedlock and sweetness of hands. Collected ourselves at the Tah-Teh dojo, determined to bring the grad back to the glory days; the days of ivory tower freedom. We shot for homebrew in the shadow of Fenway, but the youngsters among us held us back. We ate large pizza, then played video games. Youngest of all, Sheppard endured the balmy night air amidst 20-somthings with disposable income and whacked-out jr. high Marylin Mason devotees. Sweet Dreams, John.

Heading back over the Charles in a puff of smoke, the obvious linear progression became clear: connect the dots between the Yard, the dojo and the store that closes at 11. Ten blocks one way; five blocks the other. Senior shots led to a brisk walk; a Starfleet officer in full Federation regalia attempted to determine what was going on. His phasers were on stun; ours were on ass-whupping. Nog in Oct., 40 ounces to freedom; sweet wine of the sacrament. 80oz of trust for the man in the hooded jacket and piss on the doorstep to nocturnal carousal. Ketchum saves the day, parks us beneath Tony's House of Pizza, Brooks reminds us that "fucking huge balls make your dick look disproportionately small." We run into Courteny Liu, then meet at John Harvard. Remember: Special Forces never die. The only go to Hell to regroup.

The smell of wet bronze fills the Crimson night; revelry heard on the fifth floor. Three cheers for Old Nassau. A Harvard officer gay as the wind, gay as the night is long, a new finding in the US news poll, and an invitation from a girl named Liz: the night rises to its tuxedoed peak (and us without our cumberbunds). America's oldest college lies on public grounds. The gates lie open; the shrubbery beckons the tired and the paranoid. Stafford is long lost, but a green and white box takes his place and draws sinister glances. Power-walking emerges as a viable recreational option; as does crashing the Greeks at MIT. Division; derision. Sam's hospitality and our gratitude reach their all-time heights; Liz has cut her hair, but does not fail to bring back the past. Courteny Liu foils plans to claim the Crimson Clapper. We bid fond fairwell to a re-invigorated memory and witness Lou Ferigno's 1978 championship in the world's strongest man competition at the pathetic hour of 2 (or was it 1?); Lesh and Matt guide home the roving mess. Jesus saves; daylight saves. Praise the daylight, praise the bulging ball. Harvard d. Princeton, 24-0.

Next year, we're taking the Global Orbiter to play Peter's alma mater on the other side of the world.

Princeton d. BU, MIT 0, MIT club, MIT I, 2-0; split, 1-1, with UConn. Claim championship, noblesse oglige, immense sack and spiritual and psychic domination to transcend the ages. Many thanks to Tom at MIT and to all the participants in our wake.