Winter Carnival Drags On

By Tom Monahan | Friday, March 3, 2006

Author’s Note: While much of the following is fictitious, it is based in fact and is a composition of both my own words and the witticisms of several other great minds. This is not to say that I hold myself in as high regard as these great literary minds, but one day perhaps I may shine their shoes in heaven. That my friends, may be the truest and most humble of dreams.

Now the rainman gave me two cures,
Then he said, “Jump right in.”
The one was Texas medicine,
The other was just railroad gin.
An’ like a fool I mixed them
An’ it strangled up my mind,
An’ now people just get uglier
An’ I have no sense of time.
—Bob Dylan

Every winter in February, for almost a century, a haze has deliberately descended upon Dartmouth College, gripping the campus in a stranglehold of mist. This is certainly not a cloud of any conventional nature, but rather a mystic veil that shrouds our minds in mist and wraps the weekend in mystery. I have spoken with many relatives and older friends from different alma maters about their experiences over past Winter Carnivals, and almost all of them have very few recollections beyond the fact that it was one of the most entertaining weekends of their college experience. They too seem to have been afflicted by the haze that Winter Carnival brings to campus.

The true spirit of the Dartmouth campus comes to life during our brief stint of debauchery in the dead of winter. We shed our shackles of books, BlitzMail, and Blackboard for a moment and are allowed to decompress and appreciate the wonder of an Appalachian winter. Many are burnt out from the stress of mid-term exams, term papers, or any other number of pressing academic and social pursuits, and the approach of this momentary holiday certainly brings relief to the faces of men and women throughout campus.

However, how can I ask any reasonable soul to pity the poor college student? For a fact—being a student at this college is the best job in the world, and it will certainly be one of the saddest days of my life when I have to leave her. Thus, Winter Carnival is truly the icing on the cake. It is the perfect excuse to drink too much, eat too much, sleep too much, and cause as much mischief as possible. In a few words: COLLEGE. NO PARENTS.

When you work hard all day with your head and know you must work again the next day what else can change your ideas and make them run on a different plane like whisky? When you are cold and wet what else can warm you?
—Ernest Hemingway

For most Dartmouth students, Winter Carnival begins on Wednesday. Going to class in the morning seems like a privilege as it begins a day devoted to developing ones sheer excitement about the coming days and nights. A bottle of whiskey is a nice thing to wet your palate in the early afternoon as the pace of the day begins to transition into a more festive carnival atmosphere. In this situation an old Irish whiskey works the best, as the crisp finish highlights the sweet Hanover air. While one may have classes tomorrow, the smell of true freedom is in the air and the whiskey seems to be a fine reminder of that. To have so few cares in the world, it is quite fantastic.

Sometimes when I reflect back on all the beer I drink I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn’t drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, ‘It is better that I drink this beer and let their dreams come true than to be selfish and worry about my liver.’

—Jack Handey

And then there is pong. Oh pong, the brewer’s best friend:

‘It’s cold and wet outside and there is not enough snow to make a bitchin’ snow sculpture whatever will we do?’
‘I know lets play pong.’
‘Ok.’
‘What is that snow sculpture of really?’
‘Oh, it is supposed to be Calvin and Hobbes sliding down and ‘D’ and there is a torch to symbolize the Olympics but it doesn’t work.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s kind of stupid.’
‘I know.’

Some may never live, but the crazy never die
—Hunter S. Thompson

It was an acrid pink substance that burned the moment it slid down my throat. Alcohol, pomegranate, Robitussin—in actuality I’m in no way privy to its specific composition, but the liquid sucked away my vitality and quickly brought a blur into my field of vision. One cup, then another and my virility was immediately sucked from my being [while I was not aware of this effect at the immediate moment, I discovered it a few moments later] and my awareness of surroundings began to melt away.

I had several other pressing appointments before the evening really began, however I seemed to be able to gather my wits about me. Thursday the dawn of the lost souls, the den of the demons within. I found comfort in the arms of a beauty with eyes the color of an emerald sea but I was swiftly pulled back from the brink of salvation into the depths of disaster.

Mania ensued and I found myself in a tribal circle in a dark room. The walls were black and there were many men around me shrieking a song into the heavens. The hedonistic fervor continued, songs and beers and feats of manhood—what could this strange ritual be? It continued for hours—the cycle of beer-violence and song. Somehow I found a way out although I am unable to articulate how. I wish I could find my bed so I could survive for another day.

First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald

Friday the best night of them all, it is not the final evening of Carnival so you know you have time left and it is late enough in the weekend that everyone will be out enjoying the festivities. The B-side Rolling Stones are coming oh my! Well then we must imbibe as much a possible. One drink and another drink—it goes on an on. It becomes easy to understand how Fitzgerald soiled his job while he was here. Too drunk at a fraternity party, is there such a thing? Well... judging from that dude passed out on the floor I guess there is.

It continues, the show begins. What excitement. “I know it’s only rock and roll but I like it.” What joy, a band nobody cares about but myself and a few others. Time to rock. Yeah, all night. Wait, here comes the fog. Damn.

“ Give an Irishman lager for a month, and he’s a dead man. An Irishman is lined with copper, and the beer corrodes it. But whiskey polishes the copper and is the saving of him. ”
—Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi

Then comes the morning... my head hurts. But the show must go on and what better a way to continue on than bourbon. Bourbon and Apple Cider is the cure for what ails you. Apple crushers as they have lovingly been termed can go down smooth and provide the most joyous or disastrous consequences.

The first time I imbibed the concoction I had certainly had too much too quickly and found my self in my bed very early on in the evening. As my bladder coaxed me awake, I exited my room to a large crowd and a handful of flour. Poof—it was in my eyes and nose and my razor thin control over my faculties quickly vanished. I have never again suffered from such a severe whiteout.

So with the altering elixir in our bellies and a fresh coat of green on our chests, we set off to watch Indians hunt Tigers. VICTORY is ours, we retire to enjoy our last night of freedom.

Work is the curse of the drinking classes.
—Oscar Wilde

Like all good things, Winter Carnival must come to an end. While Sunday is certainly the saddest day of the weekend, recalling the merriment and suffering through your blinding hangovers together is certainly the greatest reward. Sure we have class tomorrow but after a weekend like that it is the furthest thing from my mind.

“ Sometimes you wake up in the morning, and it dawns on you just what a terrible piece of shit you are. It kind of makes you want to go to church or an AA meeting.”
— Louis Odette IV

Winter Carnival Drags On

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