The Confessions of A Beauty Contest Judge

Judging a beauty contest is easy. All you have to do is sit back and let nature take its course.

The culmination of this season's Ivy League Mixers, the Miss Ivy League contest last Saturday at the Hotel Bradford, seemed likely to become an institution as popular and enduring as the Mixers themselves.

As a packed house of 36 panted in anticipation, the judges--three Poonies, the past state chairman of the Miss America Pageant, and I-received their instructions.

Under the heading, "BEAUTY BALLOT," the judges were advised, "The contestants appearing now are to be judged for beauty of face and figure. Take into consideration posture, poise, grace, and conformity but with no consideration to their other qualifications." Personality and talent also counted.

Just before the competition began, one of the sponsors emerged from a conference with the jittery girls, and said, "It's like a snake pit in there. One of them's reciting poetry, and one's singing to herself." Earlier, he had urged the judges to get the girls' home, school, and even summer addresses ("in case we need them for something during the summer.")

The first contestant was a girl named Barbara. It came as a crushing blow to the audience and the judges that Barbara, like all the contestants to follow, was dressed in street clothes.

Next came Carol. An incredible conversation ensued:

Announcer: "What are you going to do for your talent?"

Carol: "I'm going to sing a duet with Janice."

Announcer: "What year are you in at Mt. Ids?"

Carol: "I'm a freshman."

Announcer: "And what are you going to do for your talent?"

Carol: "I'm going to sing a duet with Janice."

(Enter Janice) Announcer: "Would you tell use what you are going to do for your talent, Janice?"

Janice: "Yes, I'm going to sing a duet with Carol."

A little later, the eventual winner, Taffy Fletcher of B.U., gave a reading from Tennessee Williams' Orpheus Descending that actually approached competence. Then someone named Marcia sang a song about Yuri Gagarin that was supposed to be both original (which it was, I guess) and satirical:

"Yuri, I love you, yo-oa I do-oo-oo/ Some take me out in space with you. oo-oo/... Now you'll be mentioned in all history/Oh-oh how much you mean to me-oo-oo."

Then there was Laurie, who danced--fairly well, actually--and who wore tights. One of the Poonies whispered to me. "Good thighs." I looked at Laurie. She smiled at me.

Last was Diane, a nice average-looking girl who played a nice, average plano. She had the distinction of having a manager, who was solicitous enough to hint fraud after the judging.

The actual judging was a battle between the forces of evil--represented by the Poonies and myself, who were having mild hysterics--and the force of good--represented by the Miss America man, Marlen L. Slaven, an old hand at this sort of thing and a stickler for orderly procedure. Later Mr. Slaven was able to provide expert advice to the promoter.