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."