Just Another Night

The Who's Tommy

6:55 p.m. I put on my Perry Ellis blazer. Looking in the mirror, I think it looks very '70s-ish and I will fit in with the Tommy costumes.

7:05 p.m. I leave the dorm and look up at the sky. A full moon floats behind eerie, gray clouds, like a cutaway from some bad 1950s horror movie. I hope that it's not a bad omen for Tommy.

7:10 p.m. I enter Page Auditorium to see students wearing name tags, waiting "to find out where their free seats are gonna be." According to Trinity junior Mike Eckstut, who serves as treasurer for the University Union's Performing Arts committee, all students who work with the Union or volunteer as ushers receive free tickets to the show.

7:11 p.m. In one of Page's lounges, the volunteers are assembled in their Sunday best, sitting on couches and chit-chatting with each other. Trinity junior and house manager Stephen Gould gives instructions about how to pass out programs. After explaining Page's numbering system, he says, "If you remember it, it's good. If you forget it, it's not the end of the world."

7:13 p.m. Campus Police officers stand at their posts outside of Page. I can hear their radios crackling in the hallway as I wonder about the University's policy on ticket scalpers.

7:15 p.m. Most of the volunteers have begun to ignore Gould and are staring at different things in the room. When he starts giving seating assigments, they start listening. He takes requests for orchestra and balcony seats, and assigns volunteers to their posts. Some of the students appear overjoyed.

Others do not.

7:27 p.m. Tommy's stage manager approaches Currents photographer Evan Ratliff to inquire what we are doing. "Nothing," I say. She then explains that we cannot take pictures of the stage decorations or the preparations for the show. "We have copyrights on the set and stuff. Union rules," she explains. I quietly exit the auditorium with my tail between my legs. Evan continues to take pictures.

7:31 p.m. A steady stream of patrons begins to fill the lobby like a bunch of ants marching to their hole. The variety of dress ranges from students wearing bell bottoms and cut-off T-shirts to the Triangle's upper crust in mink coats and sport jackets.

7:32 p.m. Trinity sophomore Heather Wasserstrom tells me that she just bought a ticket outside for $20. The face value of the ticket is $18. "I know I got ripped off," Wasserstrom says sadly. "But at least I get to see the show."

7:34 p.m. Theatergoers brush by the Tommy souvenir table as the salespeople complain among themselves that they have not yet sold anything. A customer approaches the table and suggests that they sell Tommy rolling papers.

7:35 p.m. Merchandisers sell their first item: a Tommy t-shirt.

7:45 p.m. Patrons follow each other downstairs into the orchestra secition and up into the balcony as if lured by some sort of pied piper playing his beautiful music-perhaps a pied guitarist would be more like it.

7:50 p.m. Outside, a crowd of people who are waiting for their theater companions remains. A woman in a flowered dress holds up a ticket she would like to sell at face value.

7:53 p.m. University Vice Provost for Academic Services Judith Ruderman arrives and heads downstairs to her orchestra seats. "Judy Rudy," as her students affectionately refer to her, is seen by many as the University's surrogate Jewish mother. Picture your typical Jewish mother in New York, yet more tastefully dressed-that's Judy Rudy.

7:54 p.m. Trinity senior Brian Daniels, president of the University Union, arrives and heads to the ticket window to receive his "complimentary" tickets.

7:55 p.m. Trinity senior Takcus Nesbit, Duke Student Government president, and Trinity junior Chris Lam, DSG vice president for student affairs, arrive together.

7:57 p.m. The woman in the flowered dress now offers her ticket for free.

7:59 p.m. Inside the auditorium, I notice Pritchard and the other members of the Performing Arts Committee sitting in the front row of the balcony. Now I know why my Broadway-at-Duke subscription seats are in the back row of the orchestra all the way on the left side.

8:05 p.m. The lights go off as the show begins. I wonder if theatre reviewers have lights on their pens.

8:25 p.m. I manage to scribble on my pad. "This version of 'Pinball Wizard' is cheesy, Broadway-esque crap. I wish Pete Townsend and Roger Daltrey were here."

9:00 p.m. Intermission: After a rousing end to the first act, I wander over to Judy Rudy to get her review. She calls the play "hokey" and "loud." I heartily agree. I want somebody to say, "It's better than 'Cats,'" but nobody does.

9:05 p.m. Everyone in the auditorium engages in the fine art of schmoozing. I notice professors talking with other professors, administrators talking with students, professors talking to students but no professors talking to administrators. Hmm. . . that's funny.

9:10 p.m. Religion professors Eric and Carol Meyers, who attend every Broadway-at-Duke performance, work the room.

9:17 p.m. The lights dim again and the second act begins.

9:58 p.m. The finale begins with "I Hear the Music," one of my favorite Who songs. The cast makes it sound like the theme from Oklahoma.

10:05 The curtain falls. People file out with "Pinball Wizard" playing in the background. I feel like I should rent the movie to hear the music the way it was meant to be.

Bryan Center

7:55 p.m. Although most people are already seated inside, a few stragglers are still trickling into Griffith Film Theater to view Freewater Films' presentation of Gone with the Wind.

8:03 p.m. Following tradition, the film is running a little late. Sitting near the back of the left side of the theater are Valerie and Anton Schindler, two Durham residents who immigrated to Durham from Austria nearly 30 years ago. Valerie has already removed her shoes and the couple are sitting comfortably in the soft chairs-proof of the consistency with which they watch Freewater movies. "It's hard to say," she says, "but we hardly miss any." Valerie adds that by the end of the semester the students who work with Freewater usually know them well.

Both have seen the landmark film before, but seeing it on-screen in a real theater is a big draw. Still, Valerie says, she doesn't know if they'll make it all the way through the four hours of film.

8:06 p.m. Seated a few rows back and to the right, Srinivasan Ramani and Vishnu Swaminathan, both graduate students in electrical engineering, are sitting comfortably, their legs propped on the chairs in front of them. These two seem to contradict the notion that engineers never have fun, for each estimates they come to at least one Freewater movie per week. As with many students, the free admission is a large incentive for attendance. "That's the best part about Freewater," says Ramani, laughing.

8:10 p.m. Only 10 minutes overdue, the film begins to roll as the lights dim, and the audience is transported to the plantation-filled Georgia countryside of the Civil War era.

8:29 p.m. "Who's that?" asks Scarlett, "That man looking at us and smiling?" The first shot of Rhett Butler, standing at the bottom of the stairs and grinning up at Scarlett, elicits a collective gasp from the audience, followed by a swarm of audible whispers.

Other scenes will provoke similar reactions-uniform laughter or clapping. The film produces a feeling of community that few others do based on the mutual respect that most feel for the classic picture. The film's authenticity is emphasized by the soft popping it makes as it runs.

9:32 p.m. Atlanta falls.

9:45 p.m. After more than an hour and a half of the notoriously long movie, the first moviegoer gets up and leaves the theater.

9:53 p.m. Two Bryan Center employees stand talking at the bottom of the main stairwell, wearing their name tags and mandatory blue jackets.

10:03 p.m. The tables at The Caf*, normally overflowing, are mostly empty tonight, whether it be from students' lack of homework or rush week events. At one of the normally coveted round tables, Trinity sophomore Johanna Bell sits reading her Intro to Anthropology book and eating a small Campbell's microwave soup. "I was too busy to eat dinner," she explains.

10:06 p.m. At the counter, engineering senior Josiah Cocks stands, waiting to serve customers. He just started working at and will get off work at 12:30 a.m, after which time he still has to do some of his mechanical engineering homework.

10:33 p.m. A man stands at the wooden boards across from the entrance to the Lobby Shop. In one hand he holds a staple gun; in the other, several posters that he is paid by an advertising agency to distribute around campus. He declines to give his name, saying that he is afraid people will accuse him of tearing down their posters to make room for his. He takes another poster down, but points out that it is within his self-imposed rights to do so. "See how he's covering up everybody?" he says, sweat glimmering on his forehead. "That's not fair." He explains that advertisers should put only one poster on each board, no more.

"It seems tedious, it seems a bit redundant," he says of his job, "but you have to look at the advantages. I'm my own boss, and I can't be charged with sexual harassment."

10:48 p.m. Trinity senior Mieke Smith has just closed and locked the Bryan Center's Information Desk as she leaves work for the day. A familiar face at the desk, she has worked there since Sept. 1, 1993, only a few days into her freshman year. "I'm number one on the seniority list," she says without hesitation.

The desk, which normally is open until midnight, closes early today because a full staff has not yet been hired.

10:53 p.m. Sam Jackson, clad in a blue shirt and pants and brown boots, sits on a bench outside the Lobby Shop. He is waiting for the shop to close so he can begin cleaning it. A University employee for 21 years, Jackson has worked for two years in the Bryan Center. He begins work every day at 10:30 p.m., and his workday ends just before students with 9:10 a.m. classes are trying to get up-at 7:00 a.m.

10:59 p.m. Rhett's and Scarlett's daughter, Bonnie Blue, is born.

11:51 p.m. "After all, tomorrow is another day," Scarlett says, after Rhett has marched off into the fog.

The audience claps and begins to file out the doors, discussing the movie's ending and some hypothesizing about what happens next. "I think she does... I want to think she does," I hear someone behind me say.

11:57 p.m. When the theater is almost clear, the couple from Austria, who thought they might not make it through the whole thing, are the only ones left.

The Coffeehouse

9:51 p.m. Tonight, the attraction at the Coffeehouse is a weekly open-mike session called "No Boundaries." Right now, the only boundary between me and my destination is the absence of a ride to East. Four buses have pulled up in the last four minutes, each of them presumptuously labelled "special."

I take a cursory look around and find myself in a swamp of women decked out in their finest outfits. I put two and two together and discern that these buses are for them. They are "special" and I am "not." In a flash, though, they are gone, and my trusty photographer and I are left to wait for an ordinary bus.

9:59 p.m. We board an East-West-Trent-via-Central.

10:03 p.m. As we pass through Central Campus, I note that the power outage appears to be over. My photographer is apparently making up for the lost electricity time by using his flash as many times as possible during the trip.

10:07 p.m. Trinity freshmen Lisa Galluzza and Josh Chinnadurai are holding hands on the seat across from me and the photographer. They ask us what we are doing, and we explain that we are doing a story on night-life at Duke.

"There is one?" somebody calls out.

10:16 p.m. Apparently not. At least not at the Coffeehouse just yet.

The first person I meet there is Trinity senior John Miller, who appears to run the place in some vague way. Except for the name tag he's wearing-which claims his name is "Chaos"-he looks surprisingly un-bohemian.

He informs me that the theme for this installment of "No Boundaries" is "Sorority Rush."

"Tonight we're probably going to get in trouble with Panhel," he brags, "but I don't care about that."

I'm also introduced to Trinity senior Tommy Smoot, whose name tag reads "Hello my name is Satan" and comes complete with an anagram. John and Tommy encourage my photographer and me to create our own name tags.

And so begins our rush process. My photographer selects the first name of a famous photographer and spells his last name backwards, producing the monniker "Ansel Sucnip." I choose the first name of a famous writer/journalist, spell my last name backwards and become "Ernest Nodrog" for the evening.

10:22 p.m. The Coffeehouse contains just five people right now: a girl reading a newspaper (not The Chronicle) on a couch in the corner; a guy doing some homework at one of the tables; Tommy, who is lightly tapping on an African drum; John, who is making fun of Tommy; and Trinity senior Jessica Smith, who is chatting on the phone behind the food counter.

10:25 p.m. John takes the drum from Tommy and begins to play. He is much better than Tommy. The room, filled only moments before by a few bleeps from the Zaxon video game in the far corner and mumbling of Jessica on the phone, is suddenly flooded with a rapid pulsating rhythm. No one stirs, but the Coffeehouse seems filled.

10:27 p.m. Back to silence. John stops playing, Jessica hangs up and Zaxon shuts down.

10:29 p.m. Jessica is wearing a name tag bearing a high-heeled shoe that reads, "I'm a girl named Spike." She explains to me why the Coffeehouse is empty. These are tough times; after three years of packing the house with Dukies and Durhamites, the people just aren't coming anymore. Like any scene, it was here for a while, thrived for a while, then left and didn't bother to leave a thank you note.

"I think the artsy people have migrated away from Duke," she sighs. "Duke people now like to go to the Trinity Cafe because it has track lighting."

10:25 p.m. As people slowly trickle in, two young men appear at the door. They stand at the threshold, looking genuinely nervous even though they're the biggest people in the room.

"Come on in," Tommy calls out. "We don't bite."

They leave.

10:38 p.m. By the way, the Coffeehouse-as you immediately notice as soon as you enter-offers one thing you can't find anywhere else on campus: the smell of cigarette smoke.

10:43 p.m. John tries to rally the dozen or so troops in attendance by jumping onto the stage. "Tonight is 'Sorority Rush' night at the Coffeehouse," he begins. "We are thumbing our noses at the greek system."

At this juncture, perhaps it would be wise to point out that both John and Tommy are brothers in the non-residential Chi Psi fraternity.

10:45 p.m. First up to the mike is a floppy blond-haired kid named Dan. He announces his intention to read William Butler Yeats' poem "A Prayer for My Daughter" and then takes a seat.

Dan reads the Yeats poem in 21 seconds.

10:55 p.m. The stage is now filled with an impromptu band that seemed to assemble like disparate metal shards attracted to a giant magnet. Some guy is up there with an acoustic guitar. John has joined him, bringing along his African drum. And Dan has just leapt on-stage with a box of Special K cereal, which he plans to use as a cymbal. They play a couple short songs, all of which sound the same.

11:02 p.m. I count 22 people in attendance.

11:03 p.m. Trinity juniors Susan Daniel and Kathleen Yount hide at a table in the corner of the room, out of sight from the stage. A cap from a bottle of Nantucket Nectars lies between them, where it serves as a makeshift ashtray.

"We're improvising," Kathleen explains. "Using that Duke intellect." Four butts have filled the cap to the brim already-even though the pair arrived less than 20 minutes ago-and each is currently enjoying a fresh cigarette.

Kathleen informs me that she and Susan came out tonight because they are friends with John. This is a trend at the Coffeehouse: A little like the sororities they eventually intend to mock, everyone here knows each other.

11:08 p.m. John's band has broken up and he has joined us at the table. Meanwhile, back on stage, Tommy has launched into a long Walt Whitman poem.

I wait and I wait until you blow my mate to me... John, Kathleen and Susan gab about the news of the evening-the Central Campus black-out. Kathleen lives on Yearby and experienced the crisis first-hand. "It was chaos on Central," she recounted. "People ran out of their apartments screaming and lighting firecrackers." ...But my love soothes not me, not me... The talk of youthful madness quite naturally leads to a passing mention of the full moon poking through the cloud-streaked sky. ...High and clear, I shoot my voice over the waves... The conversation shifts to the sorority girls and their "special" rides to East. Much bickering ensues until someone suggests that the next reader select a passage from The Greek Way.

11:25 p.m. I've been in the Coffeehouse for almost 90 minutes and I still haven't gotten a cup of coffee. As John retakes the stage to read Evert Eden's "I Want to be a Woman," I walk to the counter and splurge for some caffeine.

"I want to be a woman, so I can have a hundred penises instead of just one."

Behind me, someone is calling for Ernest. I suddenly recall the pseudonym I chose earlier and have since forgotten. "Hey, Ernest." Finally, I wheel around. Jessica hands me a clear, glass mug. I have never drunk coffee out of a see-through mug and doing so now is very disconcerting.

11:37 p.m. A long, brown-haired guy steps up to the microphone. He begins to give a history lesson on the Dada movement of the early 20th century. I roll my eyes-here comes the stuffy, KafehaYs pretention I've heard the stories about.

Dadaists, he explains, believed that all forms of understandable language were oppressive by their very nature. To avoid this scourge of linguistic tyranny, he continues, Dadaists wrote poems without words-just sounds.

With enthusiasm that doesn't translate well onto paper, he launchs into something like this: "...eep nerrf blup blup nrrip allmm urv ipt..." The audience roars with laughter as he provides the poem's title: "That was called 'The Elephant,' I think."

11:43 p.m. Susan and Kathleen estimate that, between the two of them, they have smoked 14 cigarettes.

As I finish off my cup of coffee, I realize I put in way too much sugar.

11:44 p.m. Literaure is a dominant theme at the Coffeehouse. Somehow the loose theme of sorority rush has provoked references to such canonic writers as Melville, Eliot, Dante, Whitman, Hemingway, Yeats, Stevens, Blake and, of course, Shakespeare. Where would sorority rush be, after all, without the daughters of Lear?

11:47 p.m. The attendance is definitely at or above 30 Duke students. No matter how many people arrive, though, the dark, thick atmosphere makes the Coffeehouse seem eternally empty.

11:52 p.m. For the first time tonight, no one in the Coffeehouse-not even Kathleen or Susan-is smoking.

11:57 p.m. Four men walk in and, with them, comes an opportunity to reflect on the infamous clothing proclivities of Coffeehouse patrons. These guys, however, don't deliver the eclecticism I had anticipated. J. Crew t-shirts, blue jeans and baseball caps are the uniform. In fact, no one in the Coffeehouse is decked out in anything overtly unusual. Seeing John or Tommy on the walkway, you'd never guess they spend their time here. Where, oh where, have the bohemians gone?

12:06 a.m. It's after midnight and although the crowd level has dipped a bit, the Coffeehouse is still going strong. The smoke-filled room, which boasts and attic motife, has a pulse to it, a liveliness that West Campus has lacked for much of the year.

12:10 a.m. John is now reading a poem titled "Jesus and the Twelve Apostles in Baldwin County, Alabama" in a thick, back-woods southern accent. He does it so well that no one can understand him. One person actually stops him mid-stanza, bewilderedly crying out, "WHAT?"

"Welcome to North Carolina," John answers.

12:21 a.m. I'm back on the bus heading to West Campus. This time, it's empty-no sorority rush, no "special" buses, just me, my clothes reeking of so much smoke that I feel as if I am disguised. Still Ernest.

12:31 a.m. The last stop in Central Campus and who should get on the bus but Trinity senior Takcus Nesbit. A night in the life of a DSG president, he shares with me, includes a bad production of "Tommy" and a black-out on Central. He's heading to West to pick up his car. Or something like that.

I explain to Takcus where I've been all night. He seems to know all about the legendary alcove at the corner of the University. "Yeah, the Coffeehouse," he says. "They have the best sandwiches on campus. The best."

Perkins Library

10:24 p.m. Thursday evening finds only a handful of students in the Perk. A blanketing silence, normally confined to the adjacent Gothic Reading Room, reigns here as well. Inside the Gothic, the occasional whisper, creak of the door and tick of the clock pepper the room's familiar silence.

10:28 p.m. Trinity junior Tara McBrien has just settled down at a back corner table in the Perk to begin her night's work-an assignment for Environment 101. Tomorrow morning she must argue Japan's side in the ivory trade ban debate. An environmental science and economics double major, Tara wonders aloud how she will defend a position-Japan's elephant poaching-that she vehemently opposes. "It will be interesting," she admits.

10:31 p.m. Tara takes a gentle sip from her cup of coffee. Double latte with whole milk-whole milk, she asserts with a playful grin, not skim milk. "Girls usually get skim milk," she explains, "so the people working at the Perk always look at me somewhat oddly when I ask for whole milk. Skim milk just doesn't taste the same to me."

10:46 p.m. A stroll downstairs takes me to the Gothic's sister-the Daryl Hart Reading Room. I am immediately struck by the sight of a student napping on one of the maroon couches, pen in hand, textbook arched on his stomach. Each breath, I notice to my own amusement, can be measured as the perched textbook rises and then descends in rhythm.

Along the far wall, three girls giggle loudly enough to raise the disapproving eyebrows of a girl reading nearby. She shoots a piercing glance toward the trio. Though only one of them catches it, they reduce their volume to light whispers.

10:52 p.m. Floor Two of the stacks-or a cemetery, perhaps. Tonight, there seems little difference. Only the slight purring of an air duct above and the lonely pacing of my footsteps disturb the enveloping hush.

Trinity sophomore Brian Watkins, nestled in a side carrel, is one of only four people scattered among the shelves of the second floor. The history major has his head buried in a book for his Mexican Revolution seminar. Brian had the electricity-or, more precisely, the lack of it-in his Central Campus apartment to thank for his unexpected visit to Perkins tonight. He had been reading that same book when the blackout struck. No flashlights and reading on Pancho Villa unfinished, he figured, were reason enough to hop over to West.

11:01 p.m. The silence continues. The third floor of the stacks is certainly no exception-it produces an almost eerie quietude. Tumbleweed drifting among the bookshelves and an "O.K. Corral" whistling wind sound, I imagine, would not be all that out of place here.

11:10 p.m. When I return to the floor below, I notice that Brian has left for the night.

And then there were three.

11:14 p.m. Orgo. Two syllables, one perpetual headache for Trinity junior Eric McCollum. He is approaching his third hour of study in Daryl Hart-the copious notes, diagrams and formulas that inundate the table serve as evidence. "I'm just trying to plug along, to survive," remarks the biology major with a tinge of amusing melodrama. Eric hopes to finish up before midnight and unwind at the Hideaway for an hour.

11:21 p.m. The guy who was doing his best Rip Van Winkle rendition on the maroon couch a little earlier is now awake. He looks no closer to getting his work done, but nevertheless he is sitting upright. Thank goodness for small things.

11:24 p.m. I rejoin Tara in her quest to find a persuasive cause for lifting the ivory-trade ban and, her moral objections aside, she has made progress in her research. "I'm just going to pretend I don't care anything about elephants," she proclaims with an ironic chuckle. "Or pretend I don't know anything about the illegal side of the trade."

11:36 p.m. Tara is ready to call it a night. Four hours of sorority rush activities-Pi Phi, for those interested-earlier tonight and the knowledge of an imminent 8 a.m. wake-up will do that to you.

11:43 p.m. Tonight couldn't be any more typical for Trinity junior Jason Kasarda. After a night of studying in the stacks, his custom every night except Friday and Saturday, he relaxes with a spin on Netscape and e-mail in the computer cluster: his "reward," he calls it. Tonight he is surfing the Web in search of the dance charts' top hits and "taking mental notes" because spinning records is his hobby. Making time for relaxation is consistent with his penchant for organization. He avows that he is in bed ideally by 1 a.m. every night, but no later than 2 a.m. "It's very routine at this point," says Jason, an economics major. "I don't even think about it anymore-I just do it."

11:52 p.m. About 10 people remain in the computer cluster when the door closes behind my exiting back.

11:58 p.m. As the hour climbs, the number of people dwindles in adjacent Daryl Hart. I peek my head in and scan the room. Nothing terribly noteworthy, other than that there is no trace of Eric.

12:06 a.m. I say goodnight to the lifeless library, as most of its visitors tonight have already done.

Satisfaction

10:45 p.m. With 18:23 to go in the second half, Memphis is ahead of Louisville 34-29, but only two people sitting at the bar have tilted their heads back to watch the silent screen.

At the moment, the restaurant is filled with a less-than-capacity crowd of Duke students and Durhamites. Sorority rush seems to have taken its toll, as the male-to-female ratio stands somewhere near 8:1. Every patron is seated, a rare phenomenon in a place as popular as Satisfaction, some with just a friend or two, others in a herd of 20.

10:50 p.m. The relatively slow trickle of business has given the bouncer enough time to settle down with a magazine. A young woman soon interrupts his rapture. Instead of producing her identification, she attempts to carry on a conversation with the bouncer-an act that few ever consider, and fewer still even try. As a result, he peaks around the corner, catches the eye of a bartender and motions to the young woman standing before him. With a nod and a word from the bartender, the woman makes her way to the bar and takes a seat.

She bucks the trend of this beer-guzzling crowd and orders a brandy.

11:10 p.m. The male-to-female ratio is steadily improving now. Women finally begin to arrive in packs of five to 10. It is the first time that each of the three or four bartenders has something to do at the same time.

11:15 p.m. A pair of female students slowly make their way to the exit, stopping every few feet to chat with friends and proclaim their plans to head to Chapel Hill, exact destination unknown. One has obviously enjoyed one too many of what "Big Beer Night" is named for and leans on her sober friend for support.

It is now a standing-room-only crowd.

11:25 p.m. It has gotten very tough to get a beer and the bartenders struggle to keep pace with the demands of thirsty undergraduates. These people don't seem to have figured out that shouting orders simultaneously at one bartender does not make the beer flow any faster.

11:28 p.m. I notice that Memphis held off Louisville and won 64-58.

11:30 p.m. Sportscenter fires up right on time. But watching Sportscenter without the sound is like trying to take in a Picasso while wearing sunglasses-all interest fades quickly and upturned faces turn back to their tumblers, mugs and friends.

As I vacate my stool, I notice my notebook is stuck to the bar.

Trying to get at least six feet away from the bar at this point takes about five minutes and a gargantuan effort.

11:35 p.m. On the big screens, Chris Myers gives the umpteenth Superbowl update from New Orleans. Outside, a long line has formed and the bouncer has long since given up his magazine. He scrutinizes every square piece of printed plastic offered to him by hopeful patrons seeking to worship the big, round, silver gods and smaller, liquid-filled glass deities at the long wooden altars

Orders for shots begin to outnumber those for beer as the patrons get rowdier.

12:05 a.m. The male-to-female ratio is near equilibrium, and the guys who have been here all night are beginning to look a lot happier.

A table of 20 students rises to leave as the bar tab arrives. For these well-intoxicated students, settling the check seems an insurmountable task. The struggle to count cash and keep track of the bills that have been thrown haphazardly across the beer-soaked table escalates. In frustration, one man backs away from the table too quickly, spilling his beer everywhere-including onto a good portion of my pants leg.

12:20 a.m. Pistons highlights flash up on the television screen and no one turns to watch Grant Hill put on yet another masterful performance on the hardwood. It is enough to make even the mildest Cameron Crazy cry at the shameful behavior of these beer-guzzling blasphemers.

1:00 a.m. During a momentary lapse in conversation, one tall, blond-haired male decides to entertain the crowd by breaking out into unrecognizable song. When that only draws moans of agony from those close by, he shifts to quoting from "Jerry Maguire." No one pays attention to this either.

1:24 a.m. A couple cuddles close, lost in the sea of strangers. In each others' arms, they dance to the last few bars of Dave Matthew's "Proudest Monkey;" it appears as if they are held back from total bliss only by the fact that their feet are stuck to the floor by a veneer of drying beer.

1:37 a.m Elbow room returns to Satisfaction, as the crowd thins dramatically within a matter of minutes. People are leaving the bar like cattle that have been penned up in the corral for too long. Herds of students, unstable on their feet, charge out to the parking lot.

1:44 a.m. As last call approaches, the few remaining diehard patrons sway and sing to Tom Petty's "You Don't Know How It Feels."

Hillel House

5:55 p.m. I arrive at the Hillel House on Alexander Street for Shabbat services, which are slated to start at 6 p.m. Of course, I am the first one there-Jews being notoriously late for services-except for the Hillel director affectionately known as Rabbi Joe. He runs from room to room in the small white house putting the finishing touches on the after-services meal.

5:59 p.m. The regulars begin arriving and schmooze with one another about their weeks. Most of the talk focuses on the week's biggest topic: rush. Freshmen ask upperclassmen for advice as Rabbi Joe continues to run back and forth. Even though the table is set for about 25 people, he admitted that any number-from six to 94-come.

6:04 p.m. Tonight's service and dinner has been billed as a chance to discuss medical school admissions with an admissions officer at Duke, Dr. Harold Kudler. The man who holds in his hands the dreams of future med school students-and parents-arrives. Rabbi Joe introduces us and then runs to check on the soup.

6:07 p.m. The ever-popular game of Jewish geography takes place in one room: Students discuss Jewish overnight camps and common friends. There may be six degrees of separation between any two people on earth, but between Jews there are definitely only three.

In another room, Adam Schaffer, the Jewish Campus Service Corps Fellow, teaches songs to the Reform service leaders.

6:10 p.m. By now the Hillel House feels cramped-after all, there are at least 20 people in it. Everyone introduces themselves to each other; even among the few service-attending Jews at Duke, there are still strangers.

6:12 p.m. We've moved into the kitchen to free up room in the hall and watch the soup pot smoke. We talk with a friend's boyfriend from another school.

6:16 p.m. Candle lighting is done, followed by the requisite prayer.

6:19 p.m. Services start: Conservative in one room, Reform in another. The Conservative services are relatively full: There are 11 people at the start of the service, which is a mix of prayers in Hebrew and English, punctuated by silence. During the silences, we can hear the singing from the Reform service next door and Rabbi Joe's clattering in the kitchen.

Being a participant and an observer is proving difficult, I can't concentrate on praying because I'm constantly trying to think of how I can explain the services to an outsider.

6:40 p.m. Mourners rise to say the Mourners' Kaddish. One person stands. She is an undergraduate, and I wonder who has died in her life. Everyone looks at her and then away, reciting the familiar prayer under our breath. The guitar sounds rise and fall in the background.

6:50 p.m. The Silent Amidah: We all stand and read silently from our prayer books; this is the time for personal prayers as well. I usually pretend to pray for a little while, but tonight I am simply antsy. Reflecting on what I've noticed, I'm amazed at the fact that Duke is rumored to be 20 to 25 percent Jewish, but there are only 25 people at services. And that's a fairly large turnout.

Still, we all know when to sit, when to stand and what tunes to sing. Despite the fact that we come from diverse states, age groups and backgrounds, we are all joined by the common bond of a 3,000-year-old religion.

7:05 p.m. Services end rousingly, and we all go around and say one good thing that happened to us this week. Most people say that they love their classes. There is a call for people interested in learning how to lead the services. Right now, only three people are qualified, and if they are sick or unavailable there can be no services.

7:11 p.m. Both groups, Reform and Conservative, move back into the main room where Rabbi Joe pours the wine into little medicine cups in preparation for the Kiddush. We have a special treat tonight: real wine instead of the usual cough-syrup-masquerading-as-Kiddush-wine.

7:17 p.m. Discussion of the genetics of tongue-rolling begins. I impress everyone by touching my tongue to my nose.

7:21 p.m. Some leave to go to dinner elsewhere; everyone else lines up for the buffet-style meal.

7:32 p.m. As Dr. Kudler begins to talk about the medical school admissions process, I thank God that I dropped Chem 12.

7:35 p.m. The freshman sitting across from me breaks his plastic fork.

7:36 p.m. The guy sitting next to me breaks his fork.

7:45 p.m. Dr. Kudler tells a cadaver joke.

7:54 p.m. "You should go to college to do what you like, and do it with enthusiasm," Dr. Kudler says. The people sitting around the table seem to embody this ideal: It's a real trek to get to the Hillel House. The regular attendees don't celebrate their heritage and religion for their parents-they do it for themselves.

8:24 p.m. As Dr. Kudler finishes his speech, we begin to sing the Birkhat Hamazon, which is the Grace after Meals. This is a loud, fun prayer with lots of table-smacking.

8:45 p.m. The Birkhat draws to a close, ending the evening's rituals.

8:52 p.m. There is talk of getting renowned singer Debbie Friedman to come to Duke. One person asks if it would be possible to get 1000 people to come. Someone says yes and is quickly shot down: There may be 1000 Jews here, but "there are Jews and then there are Jewish Jews."

8:55 p.m. One of the main singers says, "We've got to end this already, I've got parties to go to!" Everyone agrees and laughs. We sing one last song to the tune of Sloop John B.

9:00 p.m. We head back to West or East. Jewish law forbids driving on Shabbat, so some people walk the dark roads back home in the misting rain. Others drive. No one waits for the bus.

Ninth Street

5:54 p.m. I walk through the door at Bruegger's and head for the counter. Two women are ordering in front of me. I recognize them as Duke students-probably sorority members who are heading to their final membership selection session of sorority rush. They are soon joined by a third woman. I ask if they have membership selection tonight. Yes; ADPi. It's going to be a long night they tell me. The woman standing closest to me guesses six hours.

5:57 p.m. I ask Assistant Manager Eric Fish how much a travel mug costs. $1.99, including the first beverage, he tells me. Momentarily I consider my already-forsaken New Year's resolution, but go ahead and order the staple of a Duke student's diet. "Regular coffee, please"-that is, caffeine.

6:09 p.m. Inside Ravena's Restaurant, Cafe and Books I scurry into the maze of bookshelves. I am not here to eat. Tip, tap, tap, tip.... Next to the entrance, a waitress is writing the day's specials on the sawhorse chalkboard.

6:20 p.m. The bell on the door rings and I glance up to see a recognizable face framed by shoulder-length, straight brown hair. I have seen him hanging around the third floor hallway of the Allen Building on campus and must have some connection to the English department.

6:24 p.m. Definitely English-he asks if the proprietor has anything by Ambrose Pierce.

6:27 p.m. Coming around the corner of the fiction section I almost run into him. I know him now-he's Reynolds Price's attendant this year. "Yes," he answers my question of whether he has been sitting in on Price's Milton class. "Wil Weldon," he shakes my hand, shifting Proust's Swann in Love from his right to his left hand. "I graduated in May '96."

Wil tells me that he's taking a year off to read what he never got around to as an English major-and working for Reynolds. On this one night off he's planning to meet a friend at Sat's and has stopped by Ravena's to pick up some of that missed reading before heading over to Brightleaf.

6:54 p.m. Having left Ravena's, a used copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera tucked under my rain coat, I head for the corner of Ninth and Buchanan. In front of Field's 24-hour Laundromat, a voice calls out my name. I stop to talk with Trinity sophomore Angie Hardister, whom I am advising during sorority rush, and her roommate, Trinity sophomore Sarah Keck. They have just come from Bahn's. Angie is excited to relate her fortune as it was told by the meal's crowning cookie. "My dearest wish will come true," she recites from memory. I immediately think of rush, hoping that she isn't.

6:56 p.m. As we talk, a man in a bowler hat walks by, holding his daughter in his arms. Hannah, as we soon learn she is called, has gobs of brown curls that escape from under her purple cap. As she sucks her thumb, we smile at her happy to have contact with a child. Hannah just stares at us and starts to pick her nose at the same time that she continues to suck her thumb. Her father can't see, but laughs along with us.

7:02 p.m. Having parted ways with Angie and Sarah, I almost miss the entrance to the Ninth Street Bar & Grill as I head south again. For what may be obvious reasons, I never associate the stained glass window over the door with a pub.

Once inside, I stroll past the bar. A waitress is wiping down a center table in the blue-tinted room. I walk up to her, having recognized her as the Duke student whose hair I admired during my freshman year. Trinity senior Juliet Arechiga is willing to talk in between serving her tables, so we head over to the bar where her soda sits next to a half-completed solitaire game.

7:04 p.m. Our conversation is interrupted when Juliet gets a phone call. Mike, the bartender, who has been listening to our talk and sporadically interjecting his own opinions, hands her the phone.

"I get off when it slows down..." Juliet talks into the handset. "Okay. Later Brian." She lays the handset on the bar and goes to check her tables.

7:06 p.m. Juliet's absence has given me a few minutes to inspect the room more thoroughly. All three television sets broadcast ESPN's Super Bowl previews. An American flag hangs in farthest back corner of the room, a Duke-blue flag just in front of it. At the far end of the bar amidst the magazines, two men are drinking Budweiser, talking quietly. Dannette, the other waitress on duty, plays solitaire closer at the other end.

7:12 p.m. Juliet is back on the neighboring barstool, the deck of cards in her hands again. Our conversation naturally turns to food and the house specialities.

"Honey mustard-I just love that shit," Juliet says, explaining that she eats it on everything from salad to fries. She's noticed as a waitress, that it's a very "Duke girl thing" to order the salad without cheese or honey mustard. "And a Diet Coke," she rounds out the order.

7:15 p.m. "Yeah, I'm not really that worried about it," Juliet says about her post-graduation prospects as she shuffles the cards almost unconsciously. She laughs, "If I'm ballsy, I'll just save some money and buy a one-way ticket to Argentina."

7:18 p.m. The cash drawer shuts to my right. Juliet stands behind the counter, arranging her tickets. "Have a good night," she throws the wish to her exiting customers without looking up.

7:32 p.m. Having said goodnight to Juliet and wished her luck on getting to Argentina, I head to the door. A group of eight teenagers, whose members collectively sport more black leather and spikes than I have seen since the Duran-Duran craze, comes in as I leave.

7:33 p.m. "How ya' doing?" a black man asks as I pass him leaning against the window of the Orvis shop. "I'm hungry, ya' got any spare money?" he calls to my back.

7:33:45 p.m. Just beyond this man, five freshman stand in Francesca's alcove, licking and sharing their ice cream cones.

Cameron

6:01 p.m. Grace period in Krzyzewskiville ended one minute ago. K-ville residents, myself included, continue to file back into the 180-tent commune. For many, making tent check has superseded academic work and personal health in importance.

6:05 p.m. Many take refuge in their tents from the bitter chill and occasional gust of wind. The exodus of students back to K-ville is now virtually complete. The waiting begins.

6:12 p.m. I embark on a sojourn through K-ville. Its red glow, as well as its sheer size, draws me to Tent #18, where a voice ponders aloud how good the men's basketball team will be if Trajan Langdon stays around for two more years. I knock on the tent and ask to enter; my request is obliged. I trek through fresh mud in search of the entrance of this camping fortress-"Is there a moat?," I joke. Once inside, I am told to leave my shoes at the entrance if I plan to sit on the carpet. Yeah, that's right, carpet. Who says you can't freeze your ass off in luxury?

6:14 p.m. The red glow, I learn, comes from a lamp hung against the backdrop of the red portion of the tent. The carpeted castle comfortably accommodates a Laz-E-Boy, a few chairs, two coolers and almost all of its 10 occupants. Tent #18 has been up since the first eligible day. Trinity juniors Ross Lukatsevich, Adrian Sisser and Miguel Gutierrez, and Trinity freshman Moulan Desai are on duty.

6:15 p.m. It takes me a good three or four minutes to finish marveling at this tent's amenities; as near as I can tell, it's the Holiday Inn of K-ville. All agree that the weather conditions for tenting are less than ideal, but, as Moulan notes, "Once the game arrives, it's all worth it."

6:18 p.m. Miguel enjoys the tent experience and confesses that when he comes to the tent with the intent of doing work, he often finds himself dozing in the Laz-E-Boy.

Right now, Adrian is enjoying the recliner's comfort. "We got it at the Salvation Army for $10," he boasts, Tom Clancy book in hand. "We have to prop the foot rest part up on the cooler, but it's okay."

6:26 p.m. "TENT CHECK!" rings an all-too-familiar nasal voice. "Grace period till nine, Coach K is buying pizza at 10." The message is repeated. After two weeks, the words "tent check" produce a striking Pavlovian effect on K-ville residents-mass chaos ensues.

6:29 p.m. I find the section under which my tent number falls. "Tents #81 through #131," shouts Trinity sophomore Drew Wooldridge.

6:30 p.m. "Tent #98!" Drew repeats. It's the second strike for Tent #98-a bump. "That's it for them," says Drew, inflicting the ultimate K-ville punishment with a simple stroke of his pen.

6:32 p.m. I make the check for my tent. People begin to disperse with relief as the rain, hitherto only a drizzle, suddenly increases in frequency and force. Grace period until 9 p.m. The rain will last longer.

6:57 p.m. Cameron Indoor Stadium provides a warm and welcome refuge. The Lady Blue Devils, ranked #24 in the nation and losers of three straight, are set to square off against the 10th-ranked Clemson Lady Tigers.

6:59 p.m. A sizable crowd-many still drying off from the weather outside-is on hand to watch a rematch of last year's ACC championship game, won by Clemson. The pitch in Cameron rises as the countdown to gametime on the scoreboard descends into decimals.

7:00:00 p.m. Game time. The teams take the court-Duke in its home-white uniforms with blue trim, Clemson in its amusingly clashing purple and orange. The ball is tossed and the opening tip is controlled by Clemson.

7:04 p.m. Duke sophomore point guard Hilary Howard nails a jumpshot to put the Blue Devils ahead, 5-4. It will be their only lead of the first half.

7:21 p.m. Munching on his few remaining popcorn kernels, Trinity senior Brian Wise can only shake his head. "The refs are killing us," he grumbles. Brian and his housemate, fellow Trinity senior Pat Tillou, are among the more vocal elements in the crowd tonight. "The women deserve our support," says Brian. "They play their asses off."

7:28 p.m. Brian and Pat have been residents of Krzyzewskiville for almost two weeks. "Tent #127," Brian proclaims proudly. "Where else would you camp out for two weeks and still be Tent #127?! It's amazing."

7:32 p.m. Members of the men's basketball team-Carmen Wallace, Trajan Langdon, Chris Carrawell, Jeff Capel, Roshown McLeod and Steve Wojciechowski-take in the game from the bleachers behind the near basket.

7:39 p.m. Band duty finds Trinity junior and clarinetist Debbie Glisson in Cameron Indoor Stadium tonight. A two-year veteran of the band, Debbie admits that performing at the women's games is more relaxed and less exhausting than the men's-but not as thrilling.

"The women's games are a lot more slack for us," she says. "They just don't seem to have the [spirit of the] Cameron Crazies that the men's games do." Nevertheless, she is still enjoying herself-her smile does not disappear once during the course of our discussion.

7:44 p.m. Duke senior guard Kira Orr drops in a trey to pull the Blue Devils within four points, prompting chants of "De-fense" from the crowd, which rises to its feet.

7:45 p.m. Halftime. Clemson 29, Duke 27.

7:51 p.m. Young Blue Devil fans scurry excitedly to the men's players lounging in the bleachers, pen and paper in hand, anxiously seeking autographs. The players oblige, the kids flash beaming smiles. They are our fellow college students, but to these youngsters, they are larger-than-life legends.

8:03 p.m. Back on the court, Howard dives into press row on the sideline in an attempt to save the ball from going out of bounds. Her hustle is for naught-it is ruled Clemson ball.

8:13 p.m. Junior forward Roshown McLeod's relaxed expression is attributable, more than anything else, to his tiredness. The team has practice tonight at 9 p.m. in Cameron before departing for College Park, Md. in the morning.

"After practice, I'll probably just go home and relax," he says. The Duke women cannot seem to get any closer than two points, but Roshown offers a positive forecast. "It's a pretty good game," he opines. "I think if we can get a couple of stops, we'll be all right."

8:27 p.m. Trinity freshmen Akel Robinson and Alexis Gantsoudes have made their way over from East because, as Alexis observes, "The game is the early thing to do here on campus-we'll party later." Alexis' primary objective tonight in Cameron is to cheer on her best friend and cheerleader, Trinity freshman Erin Spahn. Akel is enjoying his first women's game-he is friends with the four freshmen on the women's team-as well as the cheerleaders even though, he jokes, "Alexis dragged me out here in the rain."

8:34 p.m. Engineering junior and Blackwell RA Saam Azar has brought 12 freshman from his hall to the game to lend support to the women and, in particular, to their hallmate, forward Peppi Browne.

"We're a close hall," says Saam. Shouts of "Go Peppi!" are many and frequent.

8:37 p.m. The scoreboard shuts off suddenly, drawing sarcastic cries of "Scoreboard!" from the Blackwell contingency. The referees congregate by the scorer's table to sort out the confusion. The scoreboard resumes operation.

4:12 Clemson 59, Duke 57.

8:39 p.m. Browne connects on a floating jumper across the lane to give Duke its largest lead of the game: a three-point cushion. She does her hallmates proud.

8:48 p.m. Todd Singleton, a junior forward walk-on on the men's team, and I shake hands and converse for a little white. He is off to the locker room to change for tonight's practice. I wish him good luck on Sunday and tell the Maryland native to "make it a good homecoming." He smiles and thanks me.

8:50 p.m. Duke 70, Clemson 61 (F).

8:51 p.m. The Lady Blue Devils celebrate the sweet win and slap the hands of some fans on the way to the locker room.

8:59 p.m. Head coach Gail Goestenkors-accompanied by Hall, Black and Payton-enter the press conference room.

"It feels good-it's been a long time coming," she says, a mixture of exuberance and relief evident in her voice. "This is a tremendous win for us and much needed."

9:14 p.m. Peppi Browne is making plans with her friends for a late-night victory dinner. "It looks like a Ruby Tuesday celebration," she smiles.

9:15 p.m. Outside Cameron, the once steady rain has tapered off into only the slightest mist.

East Campus

8:09 p.m. HONK! HONK! A turquoise Explorer Sport idles behind Giles. The two male passengers are looking up at the dorm windows. When more honking produces no results, one of them dials a number on the cellular phone.

As I pass through the double stream of glaring headlights, I look down and notice the Confederate flag license plate mounted on the front of the car.

8:13 p.m. A couple is hurrying down the first-floor hallway of the Carr Building in front of me. The woman's whispered worry about "... being LATE!" and the staccato echo of her heels make me wonder just what we are in for.

I slip into the dark audio-visual room with them and two of my hall mates, Trinity sophomores Yael Melamed and Lauren Sudar, who have run up behind us. Yael tells me that Trinity sophomore Lauren Epstein's student documentary on African dance at Duke, "Ago Ame" is debuting. I tell them I had seen the flyers, but am here only by chance.

8:15 p.m. "If you're all there to communicate with one another.... That's a great thing," Vince, an African drummer, says from the giant screen. "I believe with every bone in my body that drums have a physical force.... There's an exchange.... My role as a drummer is to stay locked in."

My body sways to the rhythmic sounds of the film's beating drums in the midst of the standing-room-only crowd.

8:23 p.m. Naked abs alternately flex and relax as the bodies move across the screen. The crowded room erupts with good-natured laughter.

"Was there laughter during the actual performance?" I wonder to myself. "Would they have laughed if they had not been separated in time and space by the movie screen?"

8:36 p.m. Bright light suddenly illuminates the room. I blink in the short moment of shocked silence before anyone moves.

8:42 p.m. Trinity sophomore Sara Schwartz leans forward to ask Yael how Shabbat dinner at the Hillel House was as audience members congregate into groups of friends. Ava, the queen of African dance at Duke is sitting with her husband and their children in the row behind Sara. Students exchange a few words with her and then drift away.

8:46 p.m. Trinity senior Ben Cushman, one of the documentary's student interviewees, tells me he felt detached tonight as he watched himself dance and talk on the screen. He hadn't minded the laughter at his half-naked body because he was too busy marveling at what he looked like a month ago when the interviews took place.

The Bus

9:59 p.m. The Rathskellar is only one minute away from its official closing time when the last customer comes in. The pasta lady sighs when she sees me heading her way. Another employee behind the counter comes over near the pasta.

"I've been working since 10 a.m.," she says. "Sounds like a Budweiser night to me!" The words will soon prove prophetic. Even as she speaks students around campus are preparing for their own night of spirits and festivities.

10:21 p.m. Having hurriedly finished my dinner at the Rat, I now stand at the West Campus bus stop. When the bus arrives, multitudes of freshmen, their hopes high for a night of fun, pile off the bus and begin the trek toward the music they can already hear. This is only one of many trips the bus will make tonight to deliver freshmen from their home on East to their temporary haven on West.

10:35 p.m. The bus, having discharged its load at West and weaved its way back through Central, arrives again at East. Two couples of upperclassmen have swum against the stream of freshmen going the opposite way and are now disembarking to make the short trip to Ninth Street in search of dessert from Ben and Jerry's and Francesca's.

10:37 p.m. As these four upperclassmen and a handful of student returning from their tents for the Carolina game exit, a gaggle of freshmen clamber on. Characterized largely by clouds of perfume and high heeled shoes, dark pants and brightly colored sweaters, hairspray, and the occasional short skirt despite the chilly air, they fill most of the seats, conversing about the expected topics.

"How's rush going?" asks one.

"It's kind of like jogging; I want it to be over," another replies.

10:42 p.m. The bus makes its second East-Campus stop near Alspaugh, and enough students get on to fill the remaining seats and the aisle with standing passengers. Not all of these students are aiming to party. One holds two sleeping bags, a huge gym bag and an umbrella which continually knocks against the knee of another passenger. Looks like they are headed to Krzyzewskiville.

10:44 p.m. As the bus swings onto Oregon Street, many conversations turn to the popular subject of classes. One student, who seems to have never been on a Central bus before, interrupts her friend's discourse. "Is this a tour of Durham or what?" she asks.

10:48 p.m. Conversations are interupted, however, when the bus pulls up at its final destination. The crowd files out, separating into the groups of two, three, four, six or 10 that they boarded with, and they filter down the sidewalk, to be absorbed for a few hours into fraternity life before being spat out again.

Only a few students board the bus bound for Central or East, several of them clutching fliers from the Brownstone rush session that they have just attended. The three girls sit in seats across from each other-the nearly empty bus provides many choices.

"It's kind of dead over here tonight," one of them remarks as the bus starts to move.

11:06 p.m. "Is that East-West? Sweet!" a girl exclaims. The pack follows her from the central bus onto the new one.

On the new bus, a girl and a guy are conversing seriously about something that the girl needs, but doesn't have. She seems concerned. Finally, the guy offers to help. "Actually, do you want my room key? I've got a bottle of vodka in my room." She thinks for a second. "No, I'm late already," she says, explaining that she was supposed to be at her tent at 11 p.m.

11:13 p.m. A girl adjusts her hair in the window.

11:17 p.m. Three friends sitting near each other begin playing the well-known conversational game of "Who's had the least amount of sleep?" One has had only four hours during the past two nights. Another has had only three hours last night.

11:19 p.m. Another patch of people are talking about losing weight: "After tenting I'm going to weigh myself. I want to be 130 again."

"It's not that I'm gaining or losing weight," says her friend. "It's that I'm not exercising. My arms used to be solid."

Science Drive

10:55 p.m. Memories of the early '80s horror film "Halloween" flash through my imagination as I watch my feet walk down deserted hallways in Bio Sci. I wander the length of the c-shaped corridor before descending the stairwell to the next floor, systematic in my search for night life. As I roam, I feel as if I have dropped off the edge of Science Drive, and am trapped miles below the campus surface.

11:01 p.m. A professor type sits surrounded by stacks of white paper. He looks up at me as I stand in the doorway. "I haven't seen or heard any students all evening," he responds to my query. "I think they've all got better things to do."

Let us hope, I silently add.

11:34 p.m. Jeffrey Datto, his feet propped up on the lab counter, is hanging out with husband and wife researchers in one of the Levine Science Research Center's lab. This research assistant in the Department of Pharmacology had been at Sat's for a friend's birthday earlier but left when his undergraduate girlfriend and her friends started checking out other guys. But he's secure in the relationship, Datto assures me. Besides, he's going to be successful one day-he's here in the lab. So he doesn't care if the other guys are hanging out at the bar with his girlfriend now.

11:42 p.m. Datto introduces me to a friend in a neighboring lab.

"I guess I have no life," comments third year graduate student Patrick Hu over the electronic sounds of Tangerine Dream blaring through Xiao-Fan Wang's laboratory in the Department of Molecular Cancer Biology. He attempts to explain the process of researching the transforming growth factor beta negative. It's too late in the evening for me to really understand, but I nod my head anyway.

11:55 p.m. "I'm here until 3 a.m. sometimes," Patrick admits as he starts to close up the lab. Tonight he has to cut out early to return "Star Walker" to the video store.

11:56 p.m. Next door to the LSRC, the computer cluster at Teer is almost empty. In the back, the student logged in at Teer 30 takes a swig of Budweiser, setting the can down next to the one he has already finished.

Krzyzewskiville

9:50 p.m. Gathering my sleeping bag, my pillow and my tenting partner, Engineering junior Tobin Ehlis, I head out to the Cameron parking lot.

9:55 p.m. It's a fairly wet and cold night out, so Tobin and I decide to sleep in his mini-van.

10:00 p.m. I realize that I have forgotten my notebook and pen and so I run back to my dorm to get it.

10:10 p.m. I arrive back at Krzyzewskiville to find the Domino's Pizza man in front of Cameron, delivering pizzas to the hungry residents courtesy of its namesake.

10:12 p.m. "Thin crust with green peppers and onions!" he yells. I grab that one. Each member of Krzyzewskiville walks away with their own pizza as rumors fly that 170 pizzas have been delivered.

10:15 p.m. Trinity senior and head line monitor Sheri Sauter stands around and talks with some of the tenters. Other tenters start whispering about a tent check.

10:20 p.m. I see a friend, Trinity sophomore Evan Mandel, who invites me into his tent for a beer. I tell him I want to check out the scene first, but will come find him soon. He tells me he's in Tent #35.

10:30 p.m. Students stand about chatting, eating pizza and drinking beer. Discussions predominantly revolve around tent checks, Duke basketball or Dean Smith's ugly mug.

10:45 p.m. Sauter continues to chat with her friends. Students continue to mumble about a tent check.

11:05 p.m. I search for Tent #35. I find a tent with the number "35" fashioned in duct tape on one side, but as I walk around the other three sides, I cannot find an entrance. I start calling for Evan. Suddenly, I hear his voice from across the sidewalk.

11:10 p.m. To escape the cold and damp night air, I finally enter the real Tent #35. It is well-decorated-for a tent. There is a blanket with a football player on it stretched out over the floor, and a cot, which seems to have recently collapsed. Evan is sitting on the cot, and Trinity seniors Toby Ast and Daryl Katz are sitting in chairs in the back of the tent when I arrive.

11:15 p.m. Evan and Daryl talk about Amy Fisher, Joey Buttafuoco's ex-squeeze, who apparently went to their high school on Long Island. They assure me that she was a "nobody" before she shot Mrs. Buttafuoco.

11:20 p.m. Conversation turns to the Krzyzewskiville line policy as we discuss how little sense it makes.

11:25 p.m. Evan suggests a beer run, but explains that someone else must go because he's not yet legal.

11:35 p.m. I leave the tent for a little while only to hear that Coach K has recently left Cameron.

11:40 p.m. When I return to Tent #35, I find that Evan has indeed gone on a beer run. This is hearsay, however, and cannot be proven in a court of law-or before the UJB for that matter.

12:00 a.m. The climatic conditions are beginning to take their toll on the current residents of tent 35. I give Sarah my gloves.

12:15 a.m. We start to talk about whether or not Sheri will make a check so we can go home. I ask Evan to wake me up in the van if there is a check.

12:17 a.m. Dar