Spring Fling, 3 p.m. The sun was attempting to shine, the rain was attempting to ruin everything, and the Sandy Gill Affair was awfully close to picking up where the clouds left off. I was attempting to get shitwrecked despite having only thimble-sized portions of Honest Tea and some hand sanitizer at my disposal, when a dapper-looking young man in a seersucker suit ran up to me. Breathless, arms windmilling, he asked us for a favor.
“Would you mind reviewing the comfort stations for scene?” he asked.
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Charmed, I agreed and made a beeline for the row of Porta-Potties parked outside Lawrance Hall. At first sight, the restrooms seemed nice enough: Each was stocked with hand sanitizer and ample toilet paper; all had been recently cleaned (or so claimed the janitorial logs taped above the hand sanitizer). Inexplicably, each potty contained a urinal, which seemed to be asking for trouble — barfy, fecal trouble. I nodded in approval. At 3:20 p.m., the bathrooms got a solid pass.
Fast-forward seven hours and who knows how many ounces of MGMT-salving liquid fun, I expected to see sheer mayhem sploshed on the floors and ceilings of our sad, sad comfort stations. Imagine my surprise when I found them in near-pristine condition. It was, in some, ways a blessing. I don’t want to risk picking up scabies or coming face-to-face with a puddle of someone’s vomit every time I need to empty my bladders. But there was no shit-smell in the potties or the urinals. No used condoms (or dental dams!). No incapacitated, spandex-bedecked bros, either. Only the stray beer can and Canadian Club whisky bottle tucked on a shelf above one of the stations betrayed the liquor-soaked scene I had just left behind on Old Campus. Head spinning, I was left with just one question: Did we not have fun this year?
I would blame the easy availability of clean, warm, stationary toilets in Dwight, Connecticut or Linsly-Chittenden halls, left open in the afternoon hours when the need to urinate in peace always seems more pressing than the need to dance. But that doesn’t seem quite right to me. The real answer: This year’s Spring Fling was downright docile. We came, we drank, we listened, we peed and we did it all without incident.
What a waste of portable comfort.