"Capitol Revelers Take Politics Out of Party," The Washington Post, April 11, 1984 <p>Copyright 1984 The Washington Post <br>The Washington Post <p>April 11, 1984, Wednesday, Final Edition <p>SECTION: Metro; C3 <p>HEADLINE: Capitol Revelers Take Politics Out of Party <p>BYLINE: By Arthur S. Brisbane, Washington Post Staff Writer <p>DATELINE: ANNAPOLIS, April 10, 1984 <p>They probably didn't make history. Pension bills and rockfish regulation are not the stuff of the ages. But they did make tracks. <p>For 90 days in 1984, Maryland's lawmakers grappled with the legislative process, animating the historic state capitol with the passions and issues of the moment. Some of them left Annapolis today with a victory, some with a grudge, some with a hangover. In the cool spring air of the legislative aftermath, it didn't matter so much what they took with them. What mattered was that it was over. <p>"After 90 days," said one State House denizen, "enough is enough." <p>Right up to the dawn's early light, State House revelers marked the final day of the session, known as "sine die," with a celebration. At a party given by Del. Hattie N. Harrison (D-Baltimore) in the Hilton Inn's Washington Ballroom, hundreds of party-goers rang out the session in a burst of nervous release. <p>"Beat It!" sang Michael Jackson over the stereo amplifiers. And, after a few drinks, and then a few more, everybody did. <p>"Like high school graduation--sine die is like that," explained House Speaker Benjamin L. Cardin (D-Baltimore). "People want to pop the cork on a bottle of champagne, toast the session and go home." <p>Another celebrator, a self-described "semilobbyist," offered a more glib, and better lubricated, explanation of the festivities. "A lot of people here are pretty indirectly related to this," he acknowledged, grabbing his partner and bussing her. "They just want to party. That's okay with me. I'll let them." <p>While Cardin and his colleagues cavorted on the dance floor, Harrison held court at a reception table. Dressed in a black gown and corsage, she slumped in a chair as guest after guest paid respects to the woman who has been host of a sine die party annually since 1973. In a year when a favorite legislative haunt called Fran O'Brien's burned down, the State House regulars were grateful to have a venue for their ecstasy. <p>Only hours before, their ecstasy had been muted. <p>In the storied chambers of the House of Delegates and the Senate, the lawmakers grappled with the remaining bills of the 1984 session. Senate President Melvin A. Steinberg (D-Baltimore County) played the role, alternately, of parliamentary chairman and fast-talking auctioneer as he drove the Senate to its rendezvous with midnight. Across the hall, Cardin herded his flock toward the long-awaited hour. <p>It was an occasion for stubbornness, as some lawmakers refused to give ground at the last, and for philosophical musings. <p>Sen. Frederick C. Malkus (D-Dorchester), waxing quizzical on a bill he described as involving the "education and preservation of rockfish," asked, "Are we going to teach these rockfish to read and write?" <p>Meanwhile, in the lobby and halls around the legislative chambers, those who had attached their fates to the lawmaking process gathered for the final countdown. Lobbyists, administrative aides, state bureaucrats, spouses and pages milled around the State House. <p>In the final minutes of the session a ritualistic drama was played out according to script in the State House chambers. When the final speeches had been read, and the last bill disposed of, a group of pages on the second floor of the House showered confetti on Cardin, signaling the time to start the party. <p>And as the legislators dragged themselves home, the sun rose brilliantly over the historic State House, an edifice that has seen many generations of laws and lawmakers and seems none the worse for it.