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Who else caught a glimpse of the heaps of screaming short guys, holding hands and yelling things in Greek, running around Westwood? The scene I saw this weekend can only mean one thing: last week was Rush Week on campus.

I’m not much of a fan of fraternities. To me, the only good things to ever come out of them are keg stands, “Old School” and Jon Stewart (Pi Kappa Alpha, class of ’81).

So in the spirit of Rush, I thought I’d share why the only Greek you’ll ever catch me wearing is maybe a bit of spilled falafel.

For anyone who’s unfamiliar, Rush is normally the first week of fall and spring quarters when the fraternities and sororities recruit new applicants, mostly by showing off how much “cooler” they are then the rest of their Greek peers. Rush activities can range from anything from throwin’ the ol’ pigskin back and forth on Bruin Walk to hosting showy barbecue cookouts for curious frat-wannabes to attend.

Frat-wannabes like my first-year roommate and me. So we put on our coolest button-down shirts and wandered over to a few of the houses to do some bonding with the guys. We ate some pizza, bragged about nailin’ chicks, talked about who scored the most goals in the last football game – you know, guy stuff (grunt).

OK, I give up. All this guy stuff isn’t really my style. I’m less of a beer-guzzlin’ can-crushin’ tough guy and more of a white wine spritzer-sipping, champagne flute-holding sophisticated guy.

Which is probably why I felt the need to lie when we stopped by one of the houses, Pi Kappa Alpha. You see, “Pike” was sort of the jock fraternity at Santa Barbara at the time (you know the type – big guys, no necks, other people do their homework for them). So I totally didn’t fit in, which was even more clear to me when they had me fill out a little slip of paper, which asked a few basic questions – my name, phone number, address and, of course, which sport I played.

Now the only sport I play is tennis, and that’s for sure not the manliest sport ever. But then again, I knew they wouldn’t buy it if I told them I was a starting linebacker for the Dodgers. So I picked a happy medium – swimming – and continued the tour.

The next thing I know, I heard some guy call my name, so I looked up and see two buffed-out fraternity brothers standing in front of me. “Justin, meet Mark. He swims for UCSB too, so you two should have a lot to talk about.”

Damn it. I don’t know anything about swimming, I thought to myself. Of course, Mark didn’t know this, and so he started firing questions right away.

“What event do you do?” he asked me.

I quickly racked my brain and said the first thing that came to mind.

“Freestyle and backstroke,” I replied hesitantly, but was relieved that I sounded like I knew what I was talking about.

“What distance?” he continued. This guy wasn’t going to stop, was he?

“What do you mean?” I managed to say to buy some time.

“You know, 50 meters, 100 meters, 150 meters,” he said.

“Oh, 50. Definitely 50.” I confidently replied. At this point, I was pretty high on myself for managing to B.S. this far. I was on a roll.

“Yeah, I also did track and field all four years in high school,” Mark said next.

And I’m not really sure what came over me. Maybe it was a rush of testosterone, maybe it was all that male bonding, but I over-enthusiastically shouted, “Oh yeah! Me too! All four years in high school, I was the best!”

“Oh yeah? What event did you do?” he replied. I was beginning to hate that question.

“What?” I said, my favorite line to by time.

“What events?” he repeated, confused about what was slowing down my response.

Unfortunately, the only event I could think of that had anything to do with track and field was shot put. And I knew, looking at me, that there was no way to convince him I could lift any weight heavier than me, let alone chuck it over my shoulder. I was in a panic. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I shrugged my shoulders and gave up.

“I dunno,” I said straight to Mark’s face. “... I helped out.” I quietly added.

Needless to say, the brothers lead me toward the door. Mark said something about “not wanting to take up too much of my sports time” and I left Pi Kappa Alpha a broken man. So take my advice: Ditch the frat scene before it ditches you.

Still think fraternities don’t “haze”? E-mail Scott at jscott@media.ucla.edu