One non-juggler who dropped by was Bambi, the "exotic artist" in the Armando's show at the Holiday Casino. My jaw dropped down to my shoe tops when she walked in the convention hall Thursday afternoon!

The president, Bill Barr, shook her hand and led her away to introduce her around. I guess he deserved to be her escort; he was the only guy there who wore a suit all week.

Speaking of that, I heard a funny one from one of the non-jugglers who came up to see what the dickens was going on. He said, "Maybe these jugglers should do a little less cascading and a little more showering! "

I hadn't realized when I took this assignment what a prime viewing spot I would occupy, but I could see it all. This little fellow named David Deeble, a real hot juggler in his own right, pointed out some other big names to me as they passed by. Lotte Brunn, an outstanding and gracious woman came in with her son Michael Chirrick. Gil Dova, a comedy juggler who's played all over the world, was there, as well as Rudy Cardenas.

A bunch of IJA people seemed to be pretty well respected by their peers, too. Allan Jacobs and Michael Kass, former champions, were there along with this outrageous comedian named Ed Jackman. A guy with a butterfly tattooed on his head walked in complaining about how the airline lost his baggage. I told him he needed a good P.I. to investigate, but he wasn't interested.

A very French guy named Arsene turned out to be very funny. Paul Bachman from Chicago said this was his first convention since 1979, and he categorized it as "mind boggling." He was speaking of people like Bryan Wendling, Dan Holzman, Randy Pryor and Susan Kirby. Speaking of women, you should have heard that Miss Tilley play the dulcimer! It almost made me forget Paul Anka for awhile!

In the Public Show, Kit Summers did the only hoop rolling I saw, while an old pro named Hamilton Floyd twirled a rope attached to a cowboy hat and juggled three balls while on a rola-bola!

Another old-timer I jawjacked with was George Barvin, who attended the very first IJA convention back in 1947 in Jamestown, N. Y. He remembered that back then anyone who could do five clubs was sort of a Superman. We looked out on the con­vention floor and recognized at least a dozen people who could do it today.

George told me that for many years Until the young people started to join the IJA in the 70's, conventions were mostly social events, and a lot of folks didn't even jug­gle. They were a lot smaller, too, with only 40 or 50 people there. Looking out on the several hundred jugglers in front of us, he said, "I never dreamed it would turn out this way."

A reporter for "The Five Club Flush," Ro Lutz-Nagey, came up at one point and asked me what I thought about things. My cool was beginning to crack, and I replied that I was pretty amazed. Apparently that wasn't juicy or articulate enough, because the comment didn't make the next morning's edition. I never quite got used to hearing people say, "I read it in the Flush. "

Bambi may have been the only person who entered that hall all week who didn't learn how to juggle. The whole hotel staff, including the maintenance man Mike Yoast and the convention programmer Laura Haines, caught the bug.

This fellow named Professor Confidence came up to me the last night and asked if I was ready to learn. "Two left feet," I stammered weakly. That was the wrong excuse though; he said I only needed my hands.

I was in a pickle then. I was being paid to sit there so I couldn't go anywhere. I made the Professor promise not to tell my partner or he Las Vegas P. I. Society, then gave it a try.

And you know what?! It only took 10 minutes. I can do it, too! Here I am, a 55-year old chain-smoking non-jogger, figuring I left my athletic ability behind with the time I was included in the first cut off the Overton High School baseball team. The most athletic thing I had done in 40 years was tossing rocks at that stupid mutt who raids my garbage can in the back yard, but I can juggle! Now there's one for Guinness!

It seemed like I was only just getting into things when it ended. I hadn't slept in 96 hours, but neither had they. People were being real friendly.

The Renegade girl, Rene, gave me a big smile and peck on the cheek before her people packed up their shop and left. Geeze, did she look good in that grey tuxedo and top hat! All eight of them did, as a matter of fact. So good, in fact, that this big muckety-muck from the Magnum photo agency in Paris, Rene Burri, took their picture on top of the hotel for the European "Geo" magazine. I'll have to get a copy of that, and of the October "Smithsonian," because another lady was there taking pictures for it.

Sunday morning the hall cleared out and Rich told me I could go home. One of the prop makers gave me a set of bean bags as I got ready to leave. I didn't realize how apparent it was that I didn't have money to pay for them. I thought I was sad saying goodbye to everyone, but couldn't really tell if I was just exhausted or whether I had had a genuinely good time. It didn't take long to find out.

The rain was pouring down in the parking lot and Freemont Avenue was beginning to look like the Colorado River. It was immediately depressing. "Back to the grind, " I growled. I was standing around waiting for someone to turn their back so I could steal their umbrella when another feeling swept over me. It was warm and friendly, the memory of the wildest week of my life. "Hot dang, Hallelujah and Yippee!" I yelled, and took off into the rain joggling my three bean bags toward the car.