Well, it's all over now.... all over but the cheering, and the rasping, and the gasping, and the great orgasmic throat lumping, heart pumping, foot thumping, ear murmuring memory of it all as 21 faithful mid-20th century Nassoons with their 17 assorted wives, sweethearts, groupies and significant others now contemplate in early 21st century tranquility those four fete-ful November days at Newport Beach, California.

 

Who were these hearty souls? In no particular order except perhaps from the top down, there came Jay Coupe, Don Lewin (alas, sans Judy), Chuck Goldberg, Roger & Milly Bates, JD & Judy Helms, Hugh Madden, Rich & Vicky McGlynn, Dave & Carol Watts, Jim & Ann Crawford, Erich & Patsy Everbach, Dave Howell & Carolyn Davis, Hank & Mary McKinney, Lew Ross & Mac Dumont, Chuck & Gerry Sethness, Bob & Beth Taylor, Bob Brodsky & Toni Treadway, Dunc & Joan Dempster, Pete & Lana Graff, Dick & Carol Grieves, Gary Lane & Marie Simmons, and Barry Schuman (alas, sans Helena).

 

From first arrivals on Thursday afternoon at the Hyatt Newporter, faultlessly arranged by our magnificent hosts Dick and Carol Grieves, we came right in, sat right down and made ourselves.... at home once again in that ineffable, primordial womb of Nassoonery. By Thursday evening, we'd found the place we were lookin' for... in the designated 'Soon Room; there was no more need to roa-ho-home. We all gasped for breath as we grasped for the high notes and the high fives, renewing our acquaintance after a long year's hiatus since the '99 Battery Bash.

 

And on Friday morning, who can forget the interminable slide down that veritable razorblade of southern California life called I-405 as we inched our way north to The Getty Museum? I, for one, would just as soon forget those ninety minutes, but by any measure, the ordeal turned out to be well worth the time and effort. For those of us who experienced it for the first time, and probably for the others as well, The Getty was awesome..... no, save that for a later generation. Suffice to say in our mid-20th century vernacular, it was unspeakably impressive, breathtaking, eloquent, humbling.

 

Then that Friday evening dinner at Rothschilds.... impromptu, impertinent, impossibly impious. How 'bout those old codgers at the bar with their young, er, daughters, and all those equally mature, seasoned codgers at the long table looking on, and that extempore musical Coupe d'grace, and good ole Goldy with his magical credit card??? Wow! ... and the food wasn't bad, either.

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On, then, to main event - that Saturday night reception-dinner-performance for assembled area alums, friends and assorted hangers-on at the Balboa Yacht Club. We came, we sang, we conquered, right? Nah... maybe more like we came, we drank, we ate, we drank some more, we schmoozed and drank, and then finally we tried the singing thing we all like best, turning in a reasonably creditable performance, or so we told ourselves.