From the "Not Again" Department: Bored@Butler has internal competition.

For those of you holed up in Purgatory Butler last week for midterms, Bwog'd bet that you saved a tab in your browser for Bored@Butler (boredatbutler.com). The site is an anonymous message board for Columbia students stuck in the library to post their thoughts.

According to WikiCU, founder Jonathan Pappas (CC '06) wanted to see what Columbia students would say if the social filter were removed. An easier approach would be to read Youtube comments, however; even without complete anonymity, there's hardly a filter.

Though the site quickly hosted thousands of posts in the days after its launch in February 2006, it has since degraded into the repetitive drivel of sex-starved students. As of the publication of this article, the current topics included general hate, the possibility of random hookups, and Stephan's hair. More telling are this week's "best": "Oh, I need a blowjob. Really" and a girl reportedly giving herself a breast exam in Milstein. Honestly, Bwog is amazed by the introspection shown by Ivy Leaguers.

Every once in a while, we feel the need to draw your attention to a piece that carries eternal resonance. You may have read Blue and White alum Chris Beam's piece before, it may be new, but it's getting around to Butler season, and we can always use a little reminder that the library can be an exciting place.

When it comes to self-aggrandizing myths, Columbia rivals the Greeks. The owl, 1968, Kerouac and Ginsberg at The West End—they all supposedly comprise Columbia's collective unconscious. But despite what the tour guides tell you, these legends are dead to the average student. Only one myth still matters, as proven by the hush that descends when an anecdote begins—and ends—with "So we got off on level nine. . ."

"When you get to school, one of the first things people say about [the stacks] is, did you know Ghostbusters was filmed there?" said Andrew, a recent Columbia graduate who preferred to withhold his real name. "The second thing is, did you have sex in the stacks?"

Butler sex is our generation's equivalent of panty raids—the tales emerge late in the party, after all other conversation topics have been exhausted. One person in the room has done it, five people have friends who did, and everyone else has thought about it but never acted on the urge.

It is one of Columbia's few unacknowledged subcultures, and perhaps its most universal—an extracurricular that unites students of all political bents, racial make-ups, and religious persuasions. We all know the regular Butler cliques: the smokers, the boho-chic grad students who pound fists outside Room 301, the bearded men who sip tea in the lounge and loudly quote Heidegger. But the Butler sex community has no identifying mark. No secret handshake, no pinky ring. Most Butler lovers show scruples in revealing their secrets, and then only in hushed tones. The movement's existence may be universal, but its stories have gone untold. Until now.

In which Bwog staffer Mark Krotov familiarizes us with the nooks and crannies at Columbia best suited for getting it on.

Wearing Butler Goggles

When sitting in Butler for eight hours straight has yielded little progress aside from two annotated pages of Confessions and seventeen updates to your Facebook profile, head outside where, chances are, at least five young men and women are standing around in a circle, discussing how over Tapes n Tapes are. It would be social suicide to approach anyone directly, but a sly glance in their direction can guarantee a response, especially if the glance says, "I will totally make out with you if you give me a cigarette." Desperate? Sure. But after a short cigarette break, the dignity that you have just lost will be forgotten, and you will attain the deep focus that will prepare you for at least four more pages before you call it a night.

Seeing the Light in a CAVA Ambulance:

Both of you are covered in vomit and you are nearly comatose, and she has just exerted more effort than she ever thought possible telling the CAVA guys exactly what you drank and at what time you started to go downhill. But look around. Isn't it romantic? The two of you resting quietly (you are on the stretcher, she is leaning next to it, attempting not to fall over) in the stark brightness, College Walk speeding by outside at three miles an hour. Here, it is just the two of you. And suddenly, she has never looked more beautiful, bathed in the fluorescence. You reach up to kiss her, knowing that you will not remember any of it when you wake up in St. Lukes.

More makeout spots after the jump.