In March of this year, Rolling Stone released "Confessions of an Ivy League Frat Boy," a jaw-dropping article based on former Dartmouth SAE Andrew Lohse's experiences' hazing and being hazed as a fraternity guy in college. The article went viral, and Lohse's fame (or infamy) has led to him landing a book deal to write a memoir of his time at Dartmouth, which will include accounts of his arrest for cocaine possession and his time hazing pledges.
Today, its 69-page book proposal was leaked online. By a secret society. Which commissioned the leak in an operation called "Goldman Snacks," dedicated, according to its website, to defending "The Truth and protect[ing] the innocent at any cost.... [while being] the lone voice in the wilderness crying out The Truth!"
You really can't make this sh*t up.
We've gone through the proposal. Objectively speaking, it's well-written, thorough, incredibly pretentious, and certain to not earn him any more friends—he doesn't leave out any details of his life at Dartmouth, and Goldman Snacks seems to have redacted the names of brothers he's written about. The whole thing is a doozy.
So with that in mind, here are 10 of the juiciest details from the book proposal, tentatively called "Partying at the End of the World." Thanks to the Dartmouth Review for originally leaking the proposal's PDF and to the inestimable IvyGate for hosting it online (with highlighted notes).
1. This is how he introduces himself.
Not long ago, I was a coke-addled elitist Dartmouth College fratboy watching my life slip away from me on a tide of cheap beer, vomit, and Jim Beam. I got so impossibly far from my humble, conservative middle-class suburban upbringing that a nihilistic alter-ego seemingly overtook who I had been before. I could not stop my identity's disintegration-instead, I saw its dissolution as a parable of my generation nearing the end of the world.
2. He uses "Catcher in the Rye," "Bright Lights, Big City," and Tucker Max's "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell" as comparison titles.
Tucker Max's infamous collection of stories about his debauched drinking and sexual exploits set off an incredible fire storm of both vitriol (that he was a misogynistic nihilist) and boyish admiration (that he was a hero to aspiring bros everywhere). In fact, as a freshman at Dartmouth, I remember gathering many a night in my dorm's common room with other freshman guys to read from the book, and the message board of imitators that it spawned, together. PARTY AT THE END OF THE WORLD parallels I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL's subject matter, and will, if published, most likely attract a similar amount of criticism. However, the proposed book has an overarching moral message, and I like to think that I'm not as feculent of a person as Tucker Max. One Dartmouth alumna, the author of BABES IN BOYLAND, has already compared my proposed book to I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL, remarking in the Chronicle of Higher Ed that the only difference was that, well, plenty of beer was served in my hell. Contrastingly, PARTY AT THE END OF THE WORLD has more of a coherent plot arc based on traditional storytelling techniques.
3. He drops multiple humblebrags to his apparently renowned sexual prowess.
Before I was a pariah at Dartmouth College for breaking the school's code of silence about fraternity culture, I was a high-achieving English major with dual concentrations in creative writing and literary theory, a functional alcoholic, and a chauvinistic coke-addled Don Juan and champion of fraternity life. During this time I rediscovered coke-including an epic binge on the 4th of July-and generally came to accept that I had failed to learn the lessons that I should have learned from my experiences. I continued partying, acting like an elitist prick, and bedding sorority sisters like it was nobody's business.
4. He reveals that his pledge name was "Regina," after Rachel McAdams' character in "Mean Girls." He also defines the term "whalesh*t" and the game "doming."
Regina: the pledge name given to me during my sink night baptism, based on the character Regina George, a well dressed, catty social climber from the movie Mean Girls. Whaleshit: the "title" given to SAE pledges; as in, "whaleshit sinks to the bottom of the ocean; whaleshit is lower than low". The term is almost always used as a pejorative address. Coincidentally, "whaleshit" is also the nickname for junior analysts (pledges, in a sense) at IP Morgan Chase. It is unclear whether the term originated in SAE or IP Morgan. Doming: A drinking "game" by which two brothers of a fraternity stand over a trashcan chugging beers in a preset amount of time (5, 10, or 15 seconds per beer); the first brother to vomit loses, and the winner has the option of vomiting on the loser's head should the brotherhood begin a chant of "Boot on his head! Boot on his head!" One can also "dome oneself'. In this iteration of the game, a lone brother stands over a trashcan chugging beers until he vomits while the brotherhood sings a traditional drinking song.
5. He was punched in the face by a billionare's son.
In the spring of my sophomore year, my second Dartmouth girlfriend-whom I met doing coke for the first time in chapter 8-and a fellow' 12 brother and I snorted coke from a framed picture of my grandfather at Dartmouth, channeling his enraged spirit from limbo. We did not realize that the clock had passed midnight and that it was the next day, April Fool's Day, my grandfather's death day six years earlier. I went back to the frat and partied until around five AM when a few brothers of a rival fraternity showed up asking to play pong. Our pong game descended into a strange fit of masculine violence, including a "dome" drinking game where the first cups were urine (mine-my best friend drank the cups). I got into a physical altercation with one of the rival frat brothers and later realized that he was the son of a trustee. He punched me in the face. The cops were called.
6. He and others were ratted out by a kid in their fraternity for cocaine possession, and they did not take it lightly.
Later, I spat on _ , the whistleblower and poured a beer on his door. Others broke into his room and peed on his socks and even set fire to a beautiful wooden table he had just made. The flame's brackish cloud of smoke enveloped the frat house like some scene from Lora of the Flies around five am one morning after an enraged house-wide bender. Brothers, who would later go on to jobs at prestigious Wall Street banks, posed for pictures next to the burning table, holding the axes, sledge hammers, and chainsaw they had used to destroy it.
7. He started to come apart at the seams, and must have been the life of the party by reading four straight chapters aloud from "Bright Lights, Big City."
The next night, my friend, roommate, and one of the many girls I was sleeping with at the time huddled together in the attic of Panarchy to talk about how to protect me. I can't believe that they all cared so much about me when I clearly cared so little about myself. At that moment, I realized that cracks were appearing in my identity, that I could barely keep myself together. The next night I overdosed on Ritalin in the library and when I returned to Panarchy and forced those friends to sit and listen as I read aloud the entire first four chapters of Bright Lights, Big City. At the end I burst into tears. They all thought I was going crazy. They were right. I was seriously coming apart at the seams.
8. In January of this year, he wrote his first column for the school paper detailing the excesses and problems of fraternity culture. After doing this, Lohse leaked an unedited first draft to a popular alumni-run blog because the school paper was threatening to not run his work. (Hey, wait a second—he has a history of leaking writings?)
As most students on The Dartmouth's directorate are affiliated with a frat or sorority, and since the College's secrecy culture is self-policing, the editors at the paper threatened to shelve the first draft of my column or cut it altogether. To one-up their threats I leaked an unedited first draft to DartBlog, a popular alumni-run blog, and stoked a witch hunt within The Dartmouth about the source of leak. The leak quickly caused a reverberation; a media firestorm began before the actual column had even landed in the paper and the anticipation and outrage over the leak forced The Dartmouth's hand.
9. This has to be the most over-dramatic description of Mad Dog I have ever read.
We wanted the torture. It was so close we could taste it. And then we did taste the torture we craved and it was the bottles of Kiwi Lemon Mad Dog 20/20 thrust into our hands, it tasted like homelessness and rags, a cocktail of cleaning fluids and lost privilege. The re-education had begun. . . threw the car into reverse and with a screech and abrupt turn we were gone, soaring through the empty night, glow of the luminous full moon searing the edges of our blindfolds.
10. And this strikes me as a douchey group of people.
"Who has the highest max on their credit card?" She asked, coke glistening in a pile on the composite, collected neatly between the smiling faces of the EMINENT ARCHON and the EMINENT DEPUTY ARCHON, the frat's fancy names for President and Vice President respectively. We each fumbled with our wallets and tossed our cards down on the pool table like something out of a movie, I was thinking, well, how the fuck did things get this far? I burped, got a taste of Keystone, instinctively wiped my mouth and then wiped my hand on my critter pants. American Express, Chase Manhattan Signature, some other imprints I had never before seen in my life. My student Visa was trifling in comparison. In this moment it was basically laid bare: Lohse, you are literally not a card-carrying member of this in-crowd, "$20,000 limit," . . said. . . slid his card on top of hers. "$35,000," he goes, and for some reason, I believed him because no one was joking around, because credit card limits were a rather serious deal in this set. As usual . . was kind of sloppy drunk from meetings, claimed he didn't have his wallet but I could tell that he must not have it on purpose because, assumedly, his limit was modest like mine and neither he nor I would lie about something like this to seem cooler. So I just didn't answer. "Clearly, $35,000 takes the prize," I said. . . won the honor chopping the blow into eight sizable lines. "Can we snort them off my face?" . . asked sweetly, smiling and slurring the "r" in snort.
There's much more, obviously. Take a read here. This is going to be a book of monumental shit-stirring proportions.