Years ago as a young event planner for a university, it was with equal parts of fear and excitement that I learned my campus was selected to host the next annual gathering of student activity planners from across the state. The four-day conference and expo, which was attended by hundreds of college-age event planners and their advisors, had a reputation for being a bit of a party. But I figured as long as I could keep the group contained, it would be a great chance to show off our campus and my inherent talent for planning large events.

Because the convention was scheduled in the fall when classes were in session, most of the activities for the event would need to be located off campus. A very nice hotel and conference center nearby would be a perfect venue, but when I approached the property about contracting it, representatives were extremely reluctant to rent out the place for a college convention. I assured them that these students were the leaders from their schools, and that each group was escorted by a staff advisor. After much convincing, they booked hotel rooms and event space for the group. We did have to agree to a $500 damage deposit for the ballrooms and meeting rooms, however, just in case.

When the time came for the conference to begin, I had prepared every detail. Spreadsheets and floor plans made setup a breeze for the breakout rooms and the expo floor where talent agents, insurance providers, tchotchke vendors, performers, and everyone else who had anything to market to college event planners had gathered. Student/advisor contingents from college campuses around the state filled the facility, and for three days, everything was perfect.

But with one day left, and a closing dinner and dance yet to come, I had apparently gotten a little ahead of myself with congratulations.

During the afternoon of the last day, I heard rumors about preparations for an impromptu toga party that evening. I did my best to squash the rumor with ominous warnings that anyone caught wearing linens would be escorted out of the ballroom.

By dinnertime, I was nervous. But by the time the meal was served, not a single bed sheet had entered the room, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. That, of course, was stupid, because there was plenty of night left for students to turn my event into a reenactment of "Animal House."

After dinner and a presentation pumping up attendees about planning events for their colleges, the lights dimmed, and one of the college circuit's most popular touring bands took the stage. About 45 minutes into the dance, a group of 10 or so barefoot students marched into the crowded room swathed in bed sheets and little else, eliciting some cheering from other attendees. The toga crew headed for the dance floor, and so did I, but while a sea of bodies parted for them, I was getting elbowed in the stomach and face as I tried to cut through the throngs of dancing students to intercept them. I reached the toga-clad bunch and told them they had to go back to their rooms and put their clothes back on, but the music was blaring so they just smiled and gave me a "Woot woot!" Then I spied more togas spilling into the room. I felt the wheels of my career begin to wobble like they do right before they fall off the buggy.

Reduced to sign language because of the pulsating band behind me, I stood in the middle of the original toga group and pointed with a frown at them, then at the exit. The bed-sheet-wearing students sullenly made their way toward the door, so I elbowed my way over to the next toga bunch, and the next, telling each they needed to leave and get dressed.

It soon became obvious that control of this party was slipping through my fingers, as there were now some 30 or 40 togas in the room, and for each one that I sent out, a new one arrived. I decided to station a security guard at the door to prevent any toga-wearers from entering. When we got to the doorway, the hotel manager was standing in it with his hands on his hips.

I quickly tried to explain that I was on this and was sending people back to their rooms to remake the beds. But in the middle of my explanation, a voice crackled across his walkie-talkie, "John, we've got togas in the pool. And furniture. Over." And with that, the manager stalked away.

Within minutes, police officers swarmed into the ballroom and shut the whole event down. I'm not sure what the manager said to the police department when he called, but there were at least 15 cars and a couple of paddy wagons outside, and the officers had riot gear on. Riot gear. Because of togas. It might have been a tiny overreaction.

A few of the students in the pool were from the original bunch I'd evicted from the dance. They had taken one of the plastic tables and set it in the shallow end of the pool. Then they'd pulled up chairs around it and were having a drink. In fairness to them, the pool rules said nothing about togas or tables in the pool, and they were drinking out of plastic cups, so it would have been difficult for the police to arrest them for anything. But the manager had no sense of humor and had called in this show of force to make sure the party was busted.

In the end, the only damage to the venue had been the unfortunate pruning of some bushes outside to make head wreaths, but the hotel kept the damage deposit, saying we violated the contract because it had to call the police. I thought about arguing, but decided to just count it as a lesson learned â?" choosing the right facility for a group is just as important as how nice its sheets are, especially if people are going to be wearing them.

— Robert Johnson, staff-development consultant, Minneapolis