I Never . . .
A drinking game reveals truths that most Princetonians will have to swallow
BY DAVE ITZKOFF '98
While colleges and universities around the country are campaigning to outlaw drinking games, such pastimes are here to stay at Princeton, as long as alcohol remains plentiful and proctors lazy. Say what you will about "Quarters" or "Beirut" -- "I Never" is the drinking game that reigns supreme.
The premise is simple: first, get yourself some beer. I'll wait. Now you and all your buddies go around the table, each of you providing a conclusion to the sentence, "I never . . . ", as in, "I never won the lottery," or, "I never met the Queen of England." Don't get too smart -- if one of your opponents puts forth an "I never" that doesn't apply to you, you've got to take a drink. (For example, someone says, "I never ordered anything from the J Crew catalog." Start swigging.) Of course, the game will inevitably take a turn for the illicit, but that's its beauty: the more you embarrass yourself, the drunker you get, which, in turn, tends to lead to further embarrassment.
In celebration of 250 years of drinking games on this campus, here are 28 sure-fire "I Nevers" guaranteed to produce results at any Princeton party. If your speech isn't slurred by the end of this list, maybe you didn't really go to this school.
I never:
- paid $25 for a copy of Paradise Lost at the U-Store, only to find the same edition at Micawber Books for $6.95.
- blew off all my work in Abnormal Psychology and discovered I still would have gotten an "A" if I hadn't taken it Pass/Fail.
- tried to enter an eating club by any means other than the front door.
- cracked my voice on any of the high notes in "Old Nassau."
- took a picture of anyone standing under Blair Arch.
- attempted to publish a personals ad in the classified section of the Prince.
- called the WPRB request line and asked the DJ to play "Stairway to Heaven."
- wrote a junior paper on a topic like "The Literary Influences of Punk Rock."
- washed my clothes in the Woodrow Wilson School fountain.
- scalped Triangle Show tickets to a properly dressed group of alumni outside McCarter Theatre.
- met my thesis adviser.
- saw (Comparative Literature Professor) Victor Brombert from a distance closer than 100 feet.
- lost a bundle betting against Princeton in the first round of last year's NCAA basketball tournament.
- was able to distinguish one a cappella singing group from another.
- cried like a baby when the Wawa declined to renew its contract with Taco Bell.
- told a group of tourists that F. Scott Fitzgerald lived in my room his sophomore year.
- scheduled my afternoon classes around Days of Our Lives.
- wondered why it's called Richardson Auditorium in Alexander Hall, when there are no other auditoriums in Alexander Hall.
- sat all the way at the back of a crowded Dinky in hopes that the train would reach Princeton Junction before I had to pay my fare.
- slipped the Chapel organist a dollar to play "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."
- threw away that tin of beans from my freshman year Outdoor Action trip.
- felt jealous because the guys at Rialto Barber Shop have conversations with all their other customers except me.
- checked into McCosh with a fake illness to get away from my roommates.
- got away with signing "I didn't cheat" in lieu of writing out the Honor Code on a final exam.
- took a nap inside "Oval with Points."
- realized we had a varsity squash team.
- slammed my books shut really loudly to alert the professor that his lecture was supposed to end five minutes ago.
- applied to Harvard, too, just in case . . .
Dave Itzkoff really is writing his next JP on "The Literary Influences of Punk Rock." At press time, he still is not of legal drinking age, and there are still no copies of Paradise Lost available at the U-Store.
SOPHOMORE(IC?) SNOW BUNNIES
Safety concerns cast chill on nude Olympians, but the Holder tradition lives on
BY JULIE RAWE '97
Princeton's Nude Olympics, an unofficial school tradition since 1970, begins annually at midnight of the first snowfall as hundreds of cheeky sophomores stampede through Holder Courtyard, which is lined with a thousand or so spectators. Mobilizing at a few hours' notice, students ready themselves by donning hiking boots and hats and applying some body paint. Other members of the university engage in more rigorous preparations: safeguards, deans, college masters, proctors in plain clothes, and uniformed officers-a small peace-keeping army-assemble in Stanhope Hall to discuss troop deployment. From their vantage point, this voyeuristic winter carnival is a logistical nightmare, and the Nude Olympics has become Public (Safety's) Enemy #1.
Deans and undergraduate class officers begin meeting in early November to plan safety procedures in the event of a snowfall. Administrators are forced to walk a fine line, providing a safety structure without sanctioning the event. "We end up looking like narrow bureaucrats, getting in the way of fun, but if somebody gets hurt, the first question is, 'Why weren't you there? Why didn't you prevent this from happening?' " says Janina Montero, the dean of student life.
Consequences of Olympians' sophomoric humor include injury, alcohol poisoning, and assault. Recent romps have sent a few Tigers to the hospital and dozens more to court. Public Safety and McCosh Health Center are now both double-staffed on the night of the Olympics. Groundspeople heap extra salt on the sidewalks and temporarily install additional lighting around the courtyard. The actual event usually ends within an hour, according to Charles Nouvel, the associate director of public safety, but "in that short period of time, it's very tense."
Although some Olympians run sober, many drink heavily before the games to remove inhibitions before removing their clothes. Timing greatly influences the level of intoxication of the participants. Two years ago, the Olympics occurred the night before a fourth of the sophomore class took an organic-chemistry exam. This year's snow frolic fell during reading period, when students had few immediate academic commitments, and the incidence of inebriation was significantly higher than in recent Olympics. In an effort to curtail drinking among the underage runners, eating clubs are asked not to go on tap before midnight, and resident advisers are given special funds to line the stomachs of potential tipplers with pizza.
Runners can get hurt or lost, and they face the threat of hypothermia, as well as frozen appendages. As first-aid squads patrol the courtyard, Outdoor Action student leaders chase after loose cannons who bolt from the courtyard and track down stragglers who pass out in the bushes.
Concern over student safety has led to a policy of increasing containment over the years. Runners used to sing in Blair Arch and streak through the library as they gallivanted across the campus and through the town. Now the Olympics are limited to Holder Courtyard. The feelings behind this containment strategy are mutual, as both students and local residents try to keep each other out. Students don't want non-university rubbernecks taping the event on camcorders, and the locals don't want undergraduate sots ransacking stores and restaurants. (After about 75 students raided the Wawa Market in 1992, the 24-hour convenience store now shuts down for a few hours on the night of the Olympics.)
This year, in an effort to deter streakers from off-campus tomfoolery, two lighted borough police cars were parked facing the Nassau Street entrances to Holder Courtyard. Sophomore class president Jon Dixon also restricted attendance by hiring safeguards, undergraduate strongmen usually employed as doorcheckers at eating-club parties, to check university IDs at each of the four entrances to the courtyard.
Many of those turned away waited expectantly outside the courtyard to catch a glimpse of participants. Body paint decorated many of the pack, including one girl coated with tiger stripes and a guy with the message "Italians Do It Better." A big "99" was shaved on the chest of one hirsute individual, and a glint of metal suggested that another gentleman sprinter was wearing an unusual piece of jewelry (perhaps a baby bracelet or a napkin ring?).
As an exhibition game, what was once a fairly spontaneous free-for-all has become more controlled and less competitive. Twenty years ago, the Olympics included a 60-yard dash, a wheelbarrow race, and a three-legged relay. Nowadays, all that remains is a lap or two around the courtyard led by a freshman torchbearer-this year's bearer was mostly absent, since she slipped early on and doused the flame in a mud puddle-and "Olympics" seems a misnomer for a naked herd huddled in the middle of a courtyard, occasionally tossing a football.
The most interesting aspect of the spectacle is no longer what the participants are doing-which is not a lot-but what the university does to make the skinfest safer. In 1991, the university ended one dangerous student tradition by removing the bell clapper from Nassau Hall so freshmen wouldn't continue risking their lives to steal it. If only snowfalls could be so easily forestalled . . .
Julie "in the" Rawe grinned and bared it three Olympics ago.