Twistin' the Day Away

Dancing for 12 hours does certain things to the body and to the mind. You discover muscles you never knew existed and your mind turns into oatmeal. But, as we found out last Saturday, it is really not that hard, provided you don't stop and don't think too much.

At a little after 1 p.m. Saturday, couple #1305 joins more than 100 dancers on the floor of the Palmer Dixon Tennis Courts, anxious to begin at this ridiculously early hour.

As we scout for a good spot from where to begin, various marathon organizers give the obligatory opening remarks, lauding the marathon's charitable cause--the Jefferson Park housing project in Cambridge which will receive the funds we raise--and offering encouragement. Currier House Master Dudley Herschbach estimates that 12 hours of dancing steps totals 13 miles of walking.

The dancers, however, are getting restless. We are still marathon innocents, and are actually anxious to end the speeches and start the music. And at last, once children from Jefferson Park have performed a choreographed dance to the theme from Fame, the disco bacchanalia begins.

From the first song ("Dance, Dance, Dance"), bodies swirl, muscles flex, dancers groove, and sweat oozes from would-be John Travoltas. The participants, mostly couples, are attired in everything from mini-skirts and shorts to more theatrical fancy dress wear.

A little bit later, Governor Michael S. Dukakis enters with a small entourage and the dancers take a brief respite to gather around the newly elected chief executive. Were it not for the Harvard and Currier House banners hanging from the wall, a casual observer might have mistaken the Duke for Dick Clark and the dancers for participants on American Bandstand. After the blessing, Dukakis exits and the Clash's "Rock the Casbah" fills the cavernous building.

After 45 minutes, energy is still high and we are loosening up. Enthusiastic dancers engage various bystanders including President Horner, in the terpsichorian revelry. #284, who said he came alone, dances around the periphery, Walkman earphones firmly in place. "I'm alone, so the slow songs are a bit of a problem. I've got Michael Jackson on the Walkman so I can keep on grooving," he says when questioned later as he dances on the tennis umpire's chair left in the middle of the dance floor.

The Jefferson Park kids, observing the lack of talent of some of the couples, put on a small exhibition for couple #855, who appear sufficiently grateful to their diminutive coaches. Others pass the time by reading the newspaper to the strains of "Shake It Baby."

The first break comes at 2:50 and the first of a series of exoduses to the refreshment tables begins. The dancers are milling around--some are sitting, but a surprising number are still on their feet. Our first intersession also brings two lucky winners door prizes: a gift certificate for Ruggles Pizza (won by #689) and two Sack Theater passes (won by #22). But all too soon the DJs start spinning their records and, hurriedly gulping one more cup of diet soda, we bounce back to the floor.

At 3:45, #1205, Jenny from Lowell House, and #061, Ben from South House, introduce themselves. #1205 attired in an Annie t-shirt and a black mini-skirt says all her roommates are participating in the revelry as #061, decked in jeans and a black t-shirt, spins her violently in a circle. They soon move along, engaging in mock combat.

Only another two hours or so until dinner, and after that, we're into the home stretch. All the same, it is a bit tougher than before.

New Order's "Temptation" takes us into a line of quasi-bunny-hoppers, boogieing like a mammoth, 400-legged caterpillar. Then Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" tells the guys not to go around breaking young girls' hearts.

"That's me, man," says #937, gesticulating to reinforce his claim to lady-killerdom.

Visions of mortality come just before the third break. The physically demanding "Rock Lobster" leaves two dancers down for more than a minute, while the rest pogo wildly, contributing to Palmer Dixon's growing, resemblance to a locker room.

By 5 p.m. we are back dancing and the first 10 minutes are easy, but 20 minutes later it takes Elvis and "Jailhouse Rock" to restore our energy.

Dinner is sandwiches. They were good at lunch, and have made nice between-tune munching, but somehow tuna and turkey on bulkies sound less appetizing now. Still, the half-hour break gives us a longer rest, and by this time we are hungry enough to eat anything.

The master of ceremonies announces two more goodies for the now utterly indifferent throng--one pound of David's Cookies and two more Sack Theater passes.

Rick James's "Super Freak" signals the end of dinner and the beginning of the sixth hour. Most dancers are now showing the effects of all the dance hours logged. Our feet hurt and our leg muscles beg for mercy, but like the climber who tackles the mountain "because it's there," we valiantly strive onward. Donna Summer's "Finger on the Trigger (Love is in Control)" propels us forward, though the minutes tick by more and more slowly.

At the halfway mark, an announcement that $13,000 has been raised provokes cheers from the dancers and the small contingent of Jefferson Park kids still present.

During the extended break, #25 wins $10 worth of wine and #260, no doubt in ecstasy, claims his new battery-operated pencil sharpener. The rest lie supine, giving each other an occasional back massage or other gesture of affection.

The second half of the marathon begins reinvigorating the dancers with new determination. Mr. Walkman, #284, dances with himself in front of a mirror and then plays air guitar and bass with a broom. At 7:30, music starts repeating, starting with "Rock the Casbah," "I Love Rock and Roll," and "Start Me Up."

Break number six comes and goes and dancers seem to be finding their second wind. A couple of slow tunes let us catch our breath and become acquainted with each other's sweat. #284 continues to party with Michael Jackson.

After eight hours of recorded tunes, live bands are scheduled to bring us through the home stretch. "Love Monsters," fresh from their victory in the Undergraduate Council's Battle of the Bands, open the last four hours and help rejuvenate our tired feet.

An announcement that Harvard is winning the hockey game against Yale comes as good news, though at this point we only feel the beat pulsating throughout our systems. We yearn for a beer to take the edge off our consciousness. But, as one organizer points out, "This is a benefit for little kids; it wouldn't be right to serve alcohol."

Hey, we're on television! This time it is a camera-toting bunch from WNEV, channel seven. We have been on WBZ and WCVB the Master of Ceremonies tells us. We are also getting our second, or maybe by this time our third, wind. Now, following Harvard's win on the ice, hockey fans drop by to boogie with us.

By 10:30, the Love Monsters really don't want to leave. "All I can do is kiss away the tears," they sing over and over again. But the dancers need a break, and Commissioner Gordon, the second of the three bands, needs time to set up.

The Jefferson Park kids are still in good spirits even though they have been hanging out for almost nine hours. Twelve-year-old Henry Cabarea tells us, "These are wacko people, totally freaky."

Mario Lopez, age 16, says he likes the view. "I walk around and look at the chicks. Harvard chicks are great." Fifteen-year-old Luis Laboy adds that he wants to go to Harvard in three years.

We ask him if he thinks Harvard people are elitist snobs. "No way man," he responds, adding, "They're good people. All of us come down to Harvard to buy stuff at the Coop."

Commissioner Gordon enters, blasting out the Romantics' "What I Like About You" and driving us into a New Wave frenzy. There's no resting now; no slow songs for a change of pace. "Time Warp" from The Rocky Horror Picture Show forces us once again to perform--this time it's a jump to the left, a step to the right, our hands on our hips, and our legs in tight. We all thrust our communal pelvises, though this time it hurts.

We join a circle of twenty marathoners, taking turns performing in the center. Most everybody looks pretty ridiculous now, but dizziness, sweat, and movement obscure harsh reality.

Like a bunch of lemmings, we propel each other forward, masochistically trying to be more reckless than the next. Vanity is hopeless and we resign ourselves to looking and smelling our worst. Friends from other parties tell us that Palmer Dixon is like a sauna, the stench unbearable. As Commissioner Gordon wraps up its set, the hockey crowd has, for the most part, left to go to other post-game parties. However, we trudge onwards oblivious to the last break.

There are numerous complaints about aching feet, legs, and backs, but no one gives any sign that they will not last the final hour. We eat and drink as if by habit--our 47th cup of diet soda, our 10th sandwich, our seventh chocolate chip cookie.

"Off the Kuff" plays hour 12, egging us on to the end and final peaceful oblivion. The dancing circle reestablishes itself and dancers pogo, spin, and flail about in a manner not usually seen at the usual dances around the College.

Our dancing goes beyond thought and, most definitely, beyond reason. We fall down, get up again, and smash into innocent bystanders and other exhausted but resilient dancers. The last song is announced: "Nothing But a House Party." It lasts forever and our muscles pitifully weep for the clock to strike the hour of one.

And just when we think we cannot take another step, the guitar plays a final cadence, and the music stops. Dancers alternately cheer and slump to the floor, warriors spent by the victory in the fray.

As the Palmer Dixon empties, we stumble Yardward with two Q-worlders and the guy who wore the "Save the Whales" shirt written in French. Music and the gentle muse of sleep compete for our consciousness, but only Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" remains firmly implanted.

They say next year will be 24 hours, but, right now we don't know and we don't care.

Hot showers and warm beds are our only reasons for existence. It will have been fun when we look back form the other side of tomorrow's breakfast, but for the moment the words of the Ramones express our sentiments well: "I wanna be sedated."