Nurses and pajama-clad patients jammed the east windows of Stillman Infirmary, phase II construction workers suspended riveting and leaned from beams, six young men hoisted themselves onto a Phillips Book Store ledge, one dungareed undergraduate swayed precariously in the slender branches of Holyoke Street's lone sapling.

A motorcycle cop roared down from Mass. Ave, at ten past on and a mob of 1000 parted like the old Red Sea. But of the cop was a child of Israel, Miss Remick's Fleetwood limousine housed the Egyptian host; the crowd surged forward again, all but inundating host car and crushing an estimated 47 white carnations.

Followed by an impromptu violet spotlight and exploding flashbulbs, she glided down the aisle of a packed Pudding auditorium. A pianist stumbled through "Days of Wine and Roses." The crowd hooted." "This is crazy...marvelous...unabelievable..."she mumbled. Her father, Class of '31, was at the foot of the stage, and she fell into Lis arms crying "Have you ever?!"

"All of us who've seen Lee this afternoon recognize her qualifications for this award." And the fans went wild. "Hometown girl makes good. I guess," Miss Remick said.

McBaine presented her with a commemorative scroll for promoting the qualities of "womanhood and acting excellence." And president Terry Winslow '65 offered the Pudding Pot as three hairy-legged transvestites gamboled across the stage. The Krokodilocs sang, the Pudding east sang. Miss Remick shook a hundred sweaty hands, and producer Larry Whitman ushered her upstairs to lunch.

"We need some sherry." he muttered hoarsely, as a more elite throng pressed forward.

"Ohhhhhh, sherry." breathed Miss Remick. "Isn't there anything else?"

Whitman turned to a henchman. "We need some B-double-O-Z-E." he said.

The Pudding goes all out for "Woman of the Year."