The Risley Sanction, Faculty Viewpoint

From the Cornell Daily Sun, May 2 2003

I have one of the oddest faculty - or quasi-faculty - positions at Cornell. as well as one of the coolest. And what makes my job so anomalous also happens to be what makes it so cool. As one of the two guest suite artists, or GSAs as we are technically known in Ris-speak (we're also known as Gizzas in Ris-speak, but you don't want to go there) I work directly for the student body of Risley College.

If the 190 students who live and hang at Risley don't like the programs - or vibes - I create, basically, I don't eat.

In this respect, Risley - including the GSA position - represents one of the last vestiges at Cornell of the once formidable student power movement, of which I happen to be a veteran.

Strange - and cool.

"Are you sure that you want to do this?" a friend of mine who attended Cornell in the late 80s asked me last spring as I prepared to undertake my voyage back there, i.e., back to Cornell and Risley.

"You know, when I was there [at Cornell] it was a pretty strange place," my friend said, arching his eyebrows for emphasis.

The contrived (now, thankfully rewritten) Riley web page with its Tolkienesque twaddle about jousting and personal growth, one had to admit, was pretty scary. And the job description, too, was sort of hard to chew. What did "create one program a week" mean, exactly?

But what the hell, I figured. It's only for one term.

So, off I went ... to Risley Land. And sure enough, on the first day I arrived, a medieval jousting tournament was taking place on the lawn. "O.K.," I sighed to myself, "here we go ..

Guess what? I wound up having a blast.

To be sure, as is usually the case with interplanetary travel - and be in no doubt, Risley is a separate planet - there was an arduous period of adjustment as I struggled to acclimate myself to the social and atmospheric conditions on the planet surface. For one thing, many if not most of the first Risleyites I encountered were disinclined to smile or even to aknowledge my existence, despite the fact that I was their putative “guest." The long-running weekly Kommittee meetings - yes, it is spelled with a "K," and no, I don't know why (I believe it has something to do with Kakfa) - that I was required to attend were also, well, a bit much. My severe hearing impairment didn't help matters.

"What am I doing here?" I asked myself more than once in the mirror of my capacious, albeit slightly spooky guest suite as I floated through those first few disorienting weeks, like the "Invisible Man.”

The nadir probably came one Saturday night when surrounded by expressionless Ris-zombies, I did my laundry in the communal room for the first time and had to extract another evidently deceased student's long-abandoned wash, triggering at least one memory of my student years that I had rather left alone.

"You've come a long way, baby" I muttered.

But then, around mid-fall, I began to feel less like The Other. The number of Risleyites who made eye contact - or even braved an outright "Hi?" - began to outnumber the Thousand Yard Stare crew. A valiant few even began sitting at my table in the Great Hall or even knocked on my open door and asked for help with this paper or project of another.

Something was happening: I was becoming... one of Them.

Meanwhile, the aspect of the position that I had originally found most baffling - its amorphousness wound up becoming a source of inspiration. As one of the helpful R.A.s put it, "It" - the GSA position - is really what you make of it." This was the meaning of the Risley sanction.

So I kind of ran with it. I created a newsletter for the college. I gave a tongue-in-cheek lecture series on my life and times; "Diary of a Head," I called it. Along with my extraordinarily gifted and helpful fellow GSA, Resident Professional Theater Associate, Daryll Heysham, I produced and hosted an enthusiastically attended Twilight Zone marathon for which I did my first Big Red all-nighter since, well, the days when as a Conell undergrad I used to stay up watching reruns of the classic tv show; there was certainly a kind of surrealistic poetic justice to that.

More mystifyingly, one cabin-feverish night I was moved to pen a Risley "anti-cheer" - which three of my equally mad neighbors enthusiastically practiced and performed before an open-mouthed session of the Kommittee. I knew that I was making progress then.

Strangely, I even found myself enjoying Kommittee. After all, what was Kommittee about, for all its occasional tedium, but student empowerment. These were real students making real decisions about their lives - and their money. I could dig that!

As I said, it's been a blast, I've had a blast. In fact, I have had so much fun and made so many wonderful friends amongst the Ris-folk that last April I reupped for a second term, and now am under consideration for a third.

To be sure, Riley is not the Perfect Society. For some reason I have not been able to ascertain, there are still too few minority students at Riley, particularly active minority students. I would like to do something to change that.

Also, someone has got to do something about that student who keeps leaving his or her wash in the machine (I recommend defenestration with mattress optional).

Yes, Risley is crazy, but in a nice way. "Now I understand Risley," I murmured to myself in the dark last week as I witnessed (and that is the word) my first deeply strange, bravura performance of the college stand by." the semi-annual Rocky Horror Show.

"So, what's it like?" my London-cum-Cornellian friend asked me recently.

"Well, it's sort of like a cross between Animal House and Paper Chase, with a touch of Fame thrown in.

Nothing strange about it all. In fact, it's a pretty cool place.

More April '69 Blues

From The Cornell Daily Sun

This is the second in a two-part series.

But no, the freakiness has just begun. Because the next day the faculty refused to endorse that the administration had brokered with the Afro-American Society (in which, the administration gave in to virtually all of the AAS's demands).

And, of course, the righteous, double-crossed brothers still had their guns, you know. That's when, naturally, things started getting really freaky. Too freaky, really.

And that's when things start getting a little blurry in my memory, perhaps because they happened so quickly. And partly perhaps because they didn't make much sense, even to a budding newshound and crisis junkie like myself who liked to keep on top of things - except a king of visceral, you are-there-history-in-making kind of sense.

I mean, something historic was happening here, although it was not exactly clear what. I remember, for example, walking on University Ave. one night, and watching Chi Psi (or was it?) burn down. And a lot of fire alarms going off all night in U-Halls.

And my roommate warning me, begging me, not to leave the dorm because there was a sniper up in McGraw Tower! And I remember going out anyway, crawling up Libe Slope guerrilla style, and, shucks, not being shot, or even hearing shots.

And the next day going back up Libe Slope, with the putative danger passed, and watching and listening to a sound truck (if nothing else, Day Hall knew how to get its hands on a sound truck, by God), telling everyone, in war-like tones, to turn in their guns - "Okay, Mary Lou, let's have that Schmeisser machine pistol! Or you won't get your grades!" or face immediate disciplinary action. I mean, what was going on here?

And, of course, I remember going to the SDS meeting that had been called for Bailey Hall, to get some kind of clue as to what really was going on, here, and seeing that SDS-cum-worried aid concerned students of the left-center meeting magically grow to one, two, three thousand, overflowing Bailey - until someone yelled: "LET'S GO TO BARTONI!!!”

Or words to that effect. And then marching over to Barton and watching Barton, too, fill up, with five, six, eight, ultimately 12,000 Cornellians, until the whole University seemed to be gathered in that vast, echoing primeval space…

And I distinctly remember climbing up one of those moveable basketball apparatuses so I could get a bird's eye view of the spectacle, and listening to David Burak and his cohorts extemporize, and watch the crowd grow listening - because no one yet knew what was going on - and no one had heard from AAS, which was presumably making preparations to blow us up.

And then, watching, listening, and not quite believing, as the AAS leadership entered Barton in its best Cleaver-Seale Panther fashion and hearing 5,000 students gasp simultaneously as we learned from Tom Jones that that was exactly what the AAS planned to do if they didn't hear from Perkins by midnight and that, of course, he had the requisite ordinance to do so.

"We have hand grenades," he declared, "we have machine guns" - at least I think he did.

He did say that Cornell was going to die. It was pretty scary, let me tell you.

And then - and then, well you know the rest: SDS declared the Barton Hall convocation an occupation in order to force the faculty to take another, better vote; 2,000 students (including myself) stayed over, listened to rabble-rousing speeches, and slept.

And the faculty, suitably impressed with our numbers (if not our arguments), did meet again and voted to rescind their previous vote against the nullification of the reprimands against the AAS for its previous actions, or something like that.

And, this is key, we made the front page of The New York Times for the fifth straight day.

Or was it the sixth? Anyway, it was pretty freaky, let me tell you.

And pretty ridiculous.

I mean, what did the Weekend really accomplish? Not much - at least not from this guest suite. James Perkins resigned under pressure, giving way to the regime of Dale Corson; remember him? No, well, that's the point.

Black students got an Africana Center, Ujamaa, increased admissions - all fine and (as I see by the black fraternity members marching in step across campus) a tradition of self-segregation that does them, nor the University community at large, any good.

Oh yes, I'm forgetting the Student Senate. Remember the Student Senate? It received a very large budget, lots of power, and atrophied into meaninglessness within a few years. So much for the new millennium.

And Cornell got its name in the history books as the first campus at which loaded weapons had been used in the course of a campus protest, thus, of course, making it easier for someone to use loaded weapons during the next major campus freak out.

It took a year, but it happened. It was called Kent State. Remember Kent State? I do. I hate to say this, but the events of Parents' Weekend, 1969, helped to make Kent State possible.

So you will forgive me, if, withal, I don't get teary-eyed about April 1969.

And yet, if the Straight Takeover had to be commemorated I have to say, I like the idea of closing down the Straight. Of course, I won't be there wouldn't catch me near the place, I don't like phony anniversaries or sanguinary ones - but I can already see in my mind's eye, all those befuddled, bewildered students walking over to the Straight, eager for their boburgers and Ivyburgers, and experiencing the satori of that denial and wondering what is going on here?

Or as Dylan used to sing: "Something is happening here, but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?"

I mean, isn't that what college really all about?

Talking the April '69 Blues

From The Cornell Daily Sun, April 7, 1989

This is the first in a two-part series. The next part will appear Monday.

And so I read in these pages, that the Straight Board has decided to commemorate the 1969 Parent's Weekend Straight Takeover by shutting down the Straight! Far out.

I can already see it now, in my mind's eye, all the usual geeks and grunts, so buried in their computerware that they had not gotten the word about the closing, trudging over to the Straight for lunch, say, and suddenly discovering, to their dismay: no boburgers! No Ivyburgers! And wondering, what is this campus coming to? What is going on?

I like it. Because, you know, that's the way it all began that crazy Friday morning, eons ago, with dozens of visibly hungry - and befuddled - students gathered around the Straight, along with a few visibly agitated parents who had been unceremoniously evicted from their Straight guest rooms at five in the morning by the advance elements of the Afro-American Society, asking each other, or muttering aloud to no one in particular, what is happening to this campus? What the hell is going on?

Cornell University, founded in 1865, was in the process of self-destructing. That's what

was going on.

Actually, it memory serves, there had been numerous, fairly hard-to-ignore signs that all was not well with the body academic - not to mention the nation-state and the cosmos - for some weeks prior to the colorful, unscheduled Parents' Weekend festivities.

James Perkins, university former president, distiguished educator, successful fund-raiser and a hail fellow well met when he was around long enough to hail him, had been roughed up, right up on the stage, while giving a speech at Statler.

A few of the black demonstrators had done an impromptu Mau Mau in the Ivy Room, dancing on the tables and causing two hapless snackers to upchuck. 

The dean of the arts college had been held hostage in his room. That sort of thing. Campus unrest.

And yet, if one was entirely oblivious to the world outside one's work-study-get-ahead continuum, as I'd say about 50 percent of the study body (and 70 percent of the freshmen) were and still are, it was still entirely possible not to suspect that all was not well with Big Red.

Until that weekend.

It was pretty freaky, let me tell you, standing outside the Straight that day I only got up there around 11 a. m., I think - and seeing everyone milling around in the rain (of course it was raining) - and one of the brothers leaning out of one of the windows of the Gameroom with a bandage around his head.

He was shaking his fist and shouting, and I found out that there had just been a pitched fight, with pool cues and ash trays, between the Takeover force, which numbered around 60 at that point, if I recall, and a group of a dozen or so gung-ho Aggies from a nearby fraternity who, dementedly, took it upon themselves to somehow take the Straight back.

Instead, they had gotten their asses kicked; as captured by Life magazine the following week in a breathtaking photo - Life goes to a campus takeover complete with airborne Aggie and airborne ashtray.

And I remember - how can I forget watching SDS members march around the Straight in a

"protective cordon" and SDS leader and Big Man on Campus Dave Burak '67 get on top of the Stump with his bullhorn, squawking encouragement to his sniffling, chanting cadres, while some of those poor, starving engineers (the assumption that anyone with a crew cut was an engineer) and their poor parents looked on from afar.

And then some of them started heckling.

It was pretty freaky, let me tell you.

And then, of course, came the guns. In retrospect, it should not have been that surprising, given all the paranoia that was going around (and not just at Cornell, baby), and the blood that had already been spilled during the Battle of the Straight.

But believe me, my friends and I were a tad taken aback when we were driving back to campus the next day and what a gorgeous far-above-Caguya sort of day that day was on the way back from a picnic in Treman Park, and we heard on the radio that the AAS had ended its two day long occupation after reaching a tentative accord with Day Hall.

And that the students, their numbers doubled by now, had emerged from the already nationally famous student union brandishing shotguns, rifles and other novel, paramilitary campus gear.

And that they had been given an escort back to Wari House by the obliging, if somewhat traumatized constables of the Cornell safety patrol.

Man, we thought as we bumped and hissed back up the Hill, what the hell is going on here?

I mean, it was freaky, let me tell you.

Of course, it was over then.

Or was it?

Twilight Zone - A Serling Performance

From Memories Oct/Nov 1989.

30 years ago: The Twilight Zone makes TV debut

The eerie, offbeat show, created by playwright Rod Serling, startled TV viewers into thinking and seeing beyond the obvious.

Friday night, like the rest of premiere week that October of 1959, found the TV networks relying heavily on the tried and true. NBC's Gillette Cavalcade of Sports was back for its 11th season. ABC, exploiting the popularity of NBC's Peter Gunn, a slick crime show, introduced The Detectives, a hard-driving, New York-based action program starring movie star Robert Taylor. Of the three networks, CBS took the only real risk. It invited viewers to enter The Twilight Zone, a series created and written by a feisty ex-paratrooper and bantamweight boxer named Rod Serling. Serling had distinguished himself writing such Emmy Award-winning live television dramas as "Patterns" for the Kraft Television Theatre and "Requiem for a Heavyweight for Playhouse 90. 

The 18 million viewers who tuned into the unorthodox new program heard a sinuous, off-camera voice promising them travel "through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind." Their journey, the voice continued, was to a "wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination

In the show's nightmarish first episode, "Where Is Everybody? an amnesiac young man, played by Earl Holliman, helplessly wanders the streets of a deserted town. Only at the end do viewers learn that the man is an astronaut hallucinating after weeks of enforced solitude. That first surprise ending underlined the primary lesson of The Twilight Zone: Things were never what they seemed. "You would buy into one reality," explains Douglas Heyes, who directed the first episode (and several others), "and it would turn out to be another."

The process of putting the ground-breaking program on the air was something of a fantastic journey in itself. Two years before the series premiere, CBS had bought a script from Serling for a time-travel fantasy called "The Twilight Zone: The Time Element,” intending to develop it into a series. But the story, about a man who goes back in time to pre-Pearl Harbor Honolulu and tries to warn the Army of the impending invasion, was considered too unconventional by the network, and the project was put on the back burner.

There it might have stayed, had not Bert Granet, the producer of Westinghouse Desilu Playhouse and a keen admirer of Serling's work, met with the writer to talk about story ideas. Serling mentioned the shelved “Time Element” script, prompting Granet to get in touch with CBS and buy the story for his anthology series. Granet then had to persuade Westinghouse and its ad agency, McCann-Erick-son, to air the program. The network people and the agency people didn't like unfinished stories like The Time Element, which left the audience hanging," Granet remembers. They liked their stories neat and wrapped with a bow." But finally, Grant's persistence won out.

"The Time Element," starring William Bendix and Martin Balsam, aired Nov. 24, 1958. Clearly, it hit a nerve: Within days Desilu Playhouse was deluged by more than 6,000 letters. Im-pressed, CBS reconsidered Serling's fantasy and asked the writer to make a pilot for a projected series; Serling came up with the story of the astronaut's hallucination. General Foods liked it and signed on as principal sponsor; Kimberly-Clark, a paper-goods manufacturer, also signed up. Serling had his deal.

As executive producer - as well as chief writer and narrator - Serling exercised more control over his product than any other writer in television. Contractually bound to write 90 percent of the scripts for the show's first three seasons, he also had his work cut out for him. Each morning during the tense months leading up to the show's debut, the hyperactive Serling would chain smoke (four packs a day), pace, gesture and dictate dialogue in the guesthouse-cum-studio of his Pacific Palisades home. Then he would hop into his 1936 Auburn Speedster and race down to the M-G-M back lot in Culver City to preside over the day's filming.

One of the first episodes to be shot was a Western fantasy called "Mr. Denton on Doomsday,” about an aging gunslinger who briefly regains his sharpshooting powers via a magic potion from a mysterious vendor. Actor Martin Landau, who had a small part in that episode, remembers sitting around a table with Serling and other actors at M-G-M. "We read and we stopped and we discussed and he'd rewrite and we'd reread and refine it. Of course, for Rod to sit down for any length of time was hard- he was so wired. For a writer to be present on the set of a television show, and the cast to all be there, reading their roles in sequence, was so unusual. It gave us a feeling that he cared. It gave us a sense of comaraderie. And it made for a show of real quality.”

While the first 13 episodes were being completed, Serling was sent on a publicity tour. Interviewers seemed to delight in asking the prize-winning playwright if he weren't debasing himself by writing for episodic TV. Serling didn't do much to dissuade them. Owen Comora, an ad agency representative who accompanied Serling on the tour, remembers the writer on a Pittsburgh talk show, "complaining how it was impossible to put on the meaningful drama when it was interrupted every 12 minutes by dancing rabbits with rolls of toilet paper. I could have killed him. After all, Kimberly-Clark, one of our sponsors, was the country's leading toilet paper manufacturer."

Serling need not have worried. The critics loved The Twilight Zone. Cecil Smith of the Los Angeles Times called the show "the finest weekly series of the season, the one clear and original light in a season marked by the muddy carbon copies of dull Westerns and mediocre police shows." Time said, Playwright Rod ('Patterns') Serling's stories of the 'fifth dimension'… are written, acted and directed with consistent competence." And TV Guide called “the show the most refreshing series in some time.”

Public enthusiasm was slower to build, and the early ratings were disappointing. Still, a loyal following among college students and youngsters started to grow, and letters from young viewers’ parents, blaming the show for keeping their children up too late, began to flood the network. Ultimately, The Twilight Zone beat both The Gillette Cavalcade of Sports and The Detectives for first place in the Friday night time slot.

The series was also building a following within the television industry itself as a showcase for actors. Among the many stars and stars-to-be who "did the Zone” were Cliff Robertson, Agnes Moorehead, Buster Keaton, Ed Wynn, Martin Balsam, Robert Redford, Jonathan Winters, Robert Duvall, Jack Klugman, Fritz Weaver, Mickey Rooney, Lee Marvin, Peter Falk, James Whitmore and Gary Merrill.

Robertson, who appeared in two episodes, "The Dummy" (about a ventriloquist who switches personalities with his malevolent sidekick) and "A Hundred Yards Over the Rim" (about a pioneer who winds up in the future when he leaves a wagon train to find help for his ailing son), remembers Serling as "very sensitive to the artist's needs. He was not one of those producer types who run roughshod over actors. He really backed us up. I remember, for example, when I was making 'Rim,' I didn't like the costumes the designer had come up with. And we had a tiff about it. And Rod came down to the California desert where we were shooting and backed me up all the way.

“The parts were so interesting,” adds actor Claude Akins, star of TV's Movin' On and The Misadventures of Sheriff Lobos. “In many shows, you’d get the scripts and think, ‘Oh, great, I only did this a month ago…" But not The Twilight Zone. The parts were wonderful." It was Serling's habit, Akins says, to cast his actors against type. In his two Twilight Zone appearances, Akins, who usually played a heavy, was cast as a good guy.

Comedian Jonathan Winters had one of his first dramatic roles in "Game of Pool," a macabre episode co-starring Jack Klugman. “It was one of the best things I ever did," Winters says now.

Serling took special pride in his ability to marry powerful social commentary and riveting entertainment, an achievement the television industry acknowledged by awarding him an Emmy for best teleplay writing in June 1961. (It was his fifth Emmy and his second for The Twilight Zone.)

In Time Enough at Last" - voted among viewers' favorites in a Twilight Zone Magazine poll - Burgess Meredith starred as bookworm Mr. Beemis, the sole survivor of a nuclear holocaust who views the disaster as an opportunity to catch up on his reading. In one of the show's best-remembered twist endings, just as he settles down for a lifetime of good reads, Mr. Beemis breaks his glasses.

In "Eye of the Beholder, " Serling created a morality play about prejudice. In a hospital room a woman (played successively by Maxine Stuart and Donna Doug-las) awaits the results of cosmetic surgery. As her bandages are removed, her surgeons recoil in horror, though to us the woman is quite beautiful. Then the camera pulls back and we realize that the drama has taken place in another world, a world whose inhabitants are (to us) grotesquely ugly. Only then do we understand the lesson of the episode.

In the show's second season, Serling added the role of on-camera host to his list of duties, creating a spellbinding persona, one that comedians continue to impersonate today. "Actually he was very nervous when he did those introductions," says Perry Lafferty, who directed several episodes. “He needed a lot of hand-holding and assurance. But somehow he got a kick out of doing them.”

Carol Burnett recalls Serling's hilarious self-parody on The Garry Moore Show in 1962. “When he walked out of a fog onto the stage and began his delivery, they went wild. The skit was written by Neil Simon, and Rod loved it." Serling later invited Burnett to appear in "Cavender Is Coming," a comedic Twilight Zone episode he wrote especially for her.

By the third season (1961-62), Serling and the show began showing signs of exhaustion. "I've never felt so drained of ideas," he complained. "I’ve written so much I'm woozy." When the show was briefly canceled in the spring of 1962 before finding a sponsor, Serling welcomed the chance to escape to his alma mater, Ohio's Antioch College, to teach communications and to put the finishing touches on a screenplay, Seven Days in May.

The Twilight Zone came back for two additional seasons in 1963 and 1964. By battling sponsors and the network censors- who had been squeamish about the & show's content from the beginning was clearly a different man. "He was much less talkative, more perfunctory, more meat-and-potatoes, remembers Landau, who had a role in one of the last episodes, "The Jeopardy Room."

When CBS canceled the program for good in May 1964, Serling was philosophical. "I can walk away from this series unbowed," he said at the time. But he never quite managed to escape its shadow, nor was he ever again to enjoy the same creative control. In 1965 he created The Loner, a promising neo-Western series about a tough but compassionate Civil War veteran, played by Lloyd Bridges. But Serling balked at CBS's insistence on putting more fighting into the show, and it went off the air after 14 episodes. Initially, he was enthusiastic about NBC's Night Gallery, a dramatic anthology that ran from 1969 through 1973, for which he wrote many episodes and again served as host. But he became disenchanted as the program descended into formula horror.

Although he continued to write and narrate television shows, including several Jacques Cousteau undersea specials, Serling derived his greatest pleasure, during the last years of his life, from teaching.

As for the Zone, it remains in syndication after 25 years, one of a handful of programs (I Love Lucy, The Honeymooners, Star Trek) to have remained in continuous circulation. In 1983, Warner Brothers released Twilight Zone_The Movie, in which four directors (Steven Spielberg, Jon Landis, Joe Dante, and George Miller) paid homage to Serling. But the film, already marred by a production accident that took the lives of actor Vic Morrow and two child actors, was panned by critics and failed at the box office. In 1985, CBS revived a version of the Zone which lasted only one season. Last year, MGM/UA launched a new Twilight Zone, which airs on independent TV stations and sometimes uses original, unproduced Serling scripts as the basis of its episodes.

Meanwhile, the original and, it would seem, inimitable version continues to travel through other dimensions, or, at the very least, other formats. In 1986, CBS Video Library began issuing videocassette versions of all 152 episodes. And Varese Sarabande has recently issued an album of Twilight Zone music, including the haunting metronomic theme created by French composer Marius  Constant.

Serling died in 1975 at age 50, after a heart attack. In his last interview, he worried that his Twilight Zone persona might overshadow his writing. "I just want them to remember me a hundred years from now," he said. "I don't care that they're not able to quote a single line that I've written. But just that they can say, Oh, he was a writer.' That's sufficiently an honored position for me."

Tacka-Tacka-Zonk!

From Cornell Daily Sun, 1972

In past decades Cornellians, like other American college students, have enthusiastically appropriated a number of sedentary, slightly juvenile diversions, including Monopoly, punch cards, comic books, and tiddly-winks.

Now we have pinball.

Over the past year or two Cornell has witnessed the growth of a large, indigenous colony of so-called pinball freaks- individuals so fond of the game that they play for half an hour, an hour, even two hours at a stretch, at least once a day. The number of these freaks is constantly increasing.

One learns of a friend after friend who has become addicted to "the pins." It's a bona fide craze.

To accommodate the rage, Cornell has installed scores of new pinball machines in the recreation halls of each of its three student unions.

At the same time, numerous local proprietors have purchased or rented machines. One discovers the noisy, ostentatious devices in many of the off-campus fast food establishments, strategically placed to induce customers to play a few rounds while waiting for their hot meatball subs and pizzas.

Several Collegetown "carry-outs" feature impressive arrays of ten, fifteen, even twenty machines. One Eddy Street submarine house is already celebrated for its sponsorship of a weekly pinball competition; each Friday the highest scorer on its "Granada" machine is warded a free sub with all the dress-

ings.

The omnipresent devices may also be found in many of the student laundromats and, of course, in virtually All of the local bars.

In all there are about two hundred And fifty machines located somewhere

On the Hill, a pinball freak's delight.

The Willard Straight Hall Game-oom is an excellent place to observe the new craze at its most extreme.

Readily accessible because of its central location on campus, the Gameroom is Visited daily by hundreds of eager students. A relatively small number patronize the pool tables, but the battery of twenty pinball machines is in continuous use.

Upon entering, the visitor immediately finds himself back in Coney Island as he is immersed in a storm of BING-BING-BINGs and TACKA-TACKA-ZONKs. Students stand before each of the large, garishly decorated, twittering contraptions: slipping in dimes, pulling plungers, pushing

"Ripper" buttons, following the bouncing pinball with what appears to be a rapid alternation of indifference, genuine amusement, serious interest, and wide-eyed, near-obsessive fascination.

Players curse and laugh aloud, mutter to themselves, shout for joy…