1981

Thirty Thousand Feet. Dazed and confused. I am presently somewhere over Harrisburg, pa., in a DC-10. Kinda makes me feel warm all over. The woman to my right is picking her teeth; the obese gentlemen to my left is snoring like an Olds 98 with a broken-muffler.Toolin doesn't even deserve this. Then again, she won't have this problem, having avoided Green Key Weekend.

Scenes in the Key of Green. Searching for clues. I .irrived in Hanover late Friday afternoon after a harrowing trip with Bob Dewey and the i: hno-Tsar. Halyard insisted on driving himself, which was a problem because he also refused to leave the back seat. Dewey just sipped Budweiser and chain-smoked while the Tsar weaved his way up the median of 1-91. I hung out the passenger seat window desperately trying to flag down a passing motorist, but me wanted to have anything to do with me. Maybe it was the pith helmet and goggles that scared them off. In any event, we arrived in one piece. Then it started.

The first sight was appropriate —Joe Gregor and Danny Evans lounging on Main rc, t-t, attired in matching shorts and flipflops. Tempora! incongruity immediately set Where was I? What year was it? Brent West was sitting on the porch of C&G, calmly ix r..Mng a textbook, seemingly oblivious to the impending lunacy. Brent claimed to be at Tuck prsuing an but I knew better. He tod been hired to be part of my personal mirage.

But who was engineering the illusion?.l had to find out.

Sprinting away from the conniving West, I -me upon Pam Donovan and Amy Beringer. Those two were also in cahoots, however They said they were "just up for the week- end." Sure, sure I'd already heard that one, though. I wasn't fooled for a minute.

: wasnt until 1 saw Rob Mcllwain that reality set in "What are you doing up here, Olin?" he asked.

i ou know pc-rtectly well I go to.school here, < Icllwain, I replied. My voice was edgy. My patience was at an end.

Uh . . . Dirk. You graduated last June, ■^member?"

-uddenly it all came back. But I still wasn't positive. "Oh yeah? Then why are you here, Rob?" Ha! I was sure I had him.

"Just finishing up," he said. "Y know Billy Vitalis, Ted Morgan, Polly Duncan we're all up here tacking on the last few classes." It was true. I had to accept the facts. I was an alumnus.

Saturday Matinee. Anno Domini, postmeridian.

Once I had acknowledged that I was, in fact, an alum at Green Key Weekend, the rest was easy. Imagine spending the weekend in Hanover without the threat of some Ph.D. addling your brain on Monday. Incredible.

So while the band played at AD on Saturday afternoon, I just attached myself to Pat Berry's 'Bl keg outside Woodward. Pat is in the process of leaving Boston for New York because the publishing arm of Children's Television Workshop is employing her to help start a computer magazine for kids. Also mingling on the Woodward lawn were a host of '8 Is including Kathy Bourke, who is reputedly working in Manchester, and Emily Neisloss, who will be heading to U. Conn. Law School in the fall. Muffin Chamberlain made an appearance, having returned from China on her way to Harvard Theological training. Made sense to me.

Bill Burgess strolled around as well, desperately trying to amass the members of the class executive committee for a meeting. DaveEdelson, Karen McKeel, Ellen Brout, and the rest were finally rounded up, and, beers in hand, we all adjourned for a few moments of pretend sobriety. We actually discussed possible class projects and so forth (Burgess will be in touch), but Head Agent Rich Page, who is helping minority businesses and hosting a game show for the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, had the most pressing news. Rich congratulated the class on its fund-raising performance to date, but he also noted that a lot of work was not getting done. For those of you who are supposed to be doing work for Rich, beware; he is threatening a horse's head in every bed if results don't begin to emerge.

The meeting finally came to a close, and we adjourned for the evening. Of course, everything went downhill from there. When I reached the Row (that street running between Kiewit and Aquinas House) it all fell apart.

Bob Hannah, who is doing the M.B.A. thing at Tuck, was running around bumping into trees. Brian Reidy, who is sailing with the U.S. Navy, was explaining the Falklands situation. Bill Crowe, the legendary Long Islander, was reveling in his respite from Fordham Law School.

Then there was the Tsar. Having collared Chris Cannon, Thom Smith, and Mark Akey, he was carrying them around in a large paper bag and allowing them to leap out at terrified freshmen. Tom McGonagle would run behind the four of them screaming expletives in French, while Tucker Gilman, Tom Waterman, and Mark Greenquist released small nuclear devices from the balcony of Phi Delt. Not really very different from the last four years.

Sunday, Foggy Sunday. Posthumous inanity

I sat on the porch of the Hanover Inn, the weather reflecting the overcast, drizzling condition of my brain. Beth Shapiro and Ann Smolowe wandered by on their way to brunch. Beth is an economc-trician for the C. I. A. Ann is working on the New York Stock Exchange.

Flipping through my backlog 0f '81 mail. together the first year away from the postcard campus that spread out before was amazed at how many faces I'd seen that weekend and how many were stretch out across the country.

Debbie Bennett in Ypsilanti Mich., working for Mobile Chemicals. Vicky Grossack in Bloomington, Ind., getting her M.B.A. Greg Clow up in San Franrisco laying out prizewinning winning magazines. Donald Chapman down inL.A. working for a city councilor. The differences■ and the distances were absolutely boggling. As was Fogcutters at Bonesgate. Memorandum. Random memo.

So that is what I remember of a weekend that I had no business leaving alive. The school still stands, though I report with gratitude that it does so with considerably more women. The ragers still rage, the teachers still teach, and the Review still drools. Same as it ever was.

For those of you who have written, and then are many of you, thanks. For those who haven't, I begin lying in earnest startinc next fall.

848 West Lill Chicago, 111. 60614