Forget hitting the sauce—sit and watch the soused.

"Hey kids! Did you just graduate sixth grade or something?"

The witticism pierces through the long halloos and screams of the party. You know, I get tired so quickly of serious and sober remarks that words like these seem as refreshing as a cold drink. The speaker, legs wide open and ready for docking, sprawls crucified on a nearby bench. His right hand clutches a mysterious plastic cup; his left is poised in a pointing gesture. My eyes follow the index finger to its imaginary end, alighting at last on a boy and a girl who indeed look rather young. As a matter of fact, they have come to Yale to visit their older sister; I met them just a few hours earlier. But the young gentleman on the bench could hardly know that, for I have never seen him on this side of Old Campus before. What keen powers of observation he must then possess, it occurs to me, what a ready wit! By golly, I sure wish I had said that myself!

Forgive me if I sound a touch bitter or seem to exaggerate my disgust. Of course, I do exaggerate it. Who has no desire to seem more upright than he really is? In any case, I do, and to fulfill it I say again that, in my noble condition, I find big Yale parties filthy and vulgar. And, crucially, I claim that watching and enjoying the spectacle they present leaves my own virtue wholly unsoiled. With that said, let me take you on an observer's tour of local nightlife.

It's now 10:00 on a typical Friday night at Yale. A short, skinny guy with black hair pulls open the door of his suite and steps out into the entryway. That's me. I make my way down the entryway stairs and out the front door, deftly avoiding the gleam of drying beer patches. Molson Ice—what a disgrace! Our landing deserves to smell of better beer. The sickly-sour smell lingers a little but soon drifts away, replaced by other familiar smells: a few varieties of smoke, a whiff of strong perfume, and, perhaps, a subtle hint of outside air. On my left, the moon rises above the crosses of Battell Chapel; on my right, a few people lean on the wooden fence, slurring their mumbles as they chat. I know one of them, but I doubt he remembers me. We've only been introduced twice, you see. No matter: he's far more fascinating to watch than to talk to. I sit down on the steps and fumble for a light. Might as well have a smoke, since I have to wait either way. Good things take time.

Five minutes later, the merrymakers begin to drift outside, dressed to the nines, ablutions performed. They shuffle about, impatient for their slower friends to come out. The Yale meat market is fiercely competitive, and few can afford to be sloppy in presenting their goods. Mind you, I differ little in this respect: I don my shiny black pants, refill my sleek Zippo, and occasionally even shave before going out. As an audience member, I too feel the duty to follow decorum.

Soon enough, the intricately structured, dynamic processes of favor, social hierarchy, and even genuine attachment instigate the colony's slow ooze away from the mother entryways and toward the entertainment pods. My own glorious group of one strolls over to Bingham, thrilled to hear the rising hum of tribal ritual. "I'm gonna get smashed tonight, yeah!"

"We're gonna get play!"

My soul stirs at the sense of something majestically primitive in these cries: the unrestrained expression of natural desire, the eternal human striving for empathy and understanding, among other good things.

Why say any more? I trust that any of you can imagine the rest fairly accurately using my opening example as a guide. The crowd tumbles in and out and over itself, the cacophony of slurred talk fills the tobacco air, he makes a pass, she gives the eye, and the whole of it goes round and round, round and round. Meanwhile, I sit on my bench—like you yourself might sit one day—and let time turn the kaleidoscope wheel.

Graphic by Sara Edward-Corbett.

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