1934
Blame the Energy Crisis for omission of the January notes. Meaning that, early in December - when your secretary should have been assembling the column - he ran out of fuel. No energy, see? Also, no news.
But where in 1973 we had a dearth, now in this good new 1974 we got a plethora of info from the Men of 1934. Leading the galaxy of reporters is one F. J. ("Jeff") Jackson of Mountain Lakes, N.J., who vainly attempts to explain away his silence in recent times by alleging he's been "busy .... doing a veritable host of things." Like what? Let "Jeff" tell you hisself:
100% of the time has been devoted to the insurance business, which, after 39 years of unremitting toil, still barely keeps the family in hockey pucks. The other 100% is shared among several diverse pursuits, which I insist upon cataloging herewith.
Would you believe Jackson the Impresario? Well, get this. I've assembled an exciting group of topless dancers from the Congo, called, obviously, The Afrodisiacs. Once we've cleared a pesky immigration hurdle, they'll be on their way. Watch for them in your neighborhood playpen!
Then, of course, there's Jackson the Writer. For years, I've been busily crafting think-pieces for such avent-garde periodicals as Phallus, Porn, and Bleep. Of course, not everything has sold. Oui, for one, said "Non." And Screw told me to do just that. As for Playboy - well, thanks to their rejection slips, I've completely papered the walls of our powder room. In a lovely bunny pink.
Well, you can't win 'em all! Just the same, I'm cautiously optimistic over a recently completed novella based on the life of a Little League baseball player, entitled, simply, "Future Jock." My agent, who draws no color-line, has offered it to Longmans-Green and Little, Brown. That's the long and the short of it.
As for Jackson the Industrialist, I think we've finally got hold of something that's gonna really take off! You're familiar, of course, with lotions that soften the skin ... well, I've created a product designed to toughen the skin. It's derived from corn oil and we're aiming it at the vast army of tennis players, bricklayers, rowers, sowers, freight-handlers, egg-candlers - anyone who's at all blister-prone. As soon as we can straighten out a little matter with the Patent Office, we'll be on the shelves of your corner chemist. Just ask for "Jackson's Hard-Pore Corn."
See what I mean? Busy.
What's that you ask: in the face of all this activity, how's my health been?
Well, except for a difficult period this summer, tol' able. During the hot days of August, I fell victim to the eye ailment which afflicted so many of the male population at that time. I refer, of course, to Nippuloma, the result of constant exposure to unrestrained female bosoms.
Man, this had to be the swingingest summer ever - bra none! Why, these old bifocals were in a steady state of steam for three months. Shucks, you couldn't take a lunch-time stroll , down Vesey Street without feeling like Victor the Voyeur, for the pity sakes!
But please don't think for a minute that my entire summer was spent ogling breasts. Not so at all! I want to establish quickly that almost equal time was devoted to focussing on fannies.
Jeff goes on (and on), reporting that his "bugged eyes" were of less concern than the "boggled mind" produced by the incidence of homosexuality and transvestism, concluding with:
Don't laugh, Charlie: at this point in time, Sally is the name of the game. Like the old song says, it's a bon-bon and berry world - just as fruity as it can be. Why, even the oak trees wear yellow ribbons! Yes, this decade is destined to go down in history as "The Gay Seventies." And I'm fagged out already.
Well, there, in several thousand ill-chosen words, you have it: Pornboy's complaint. The multi-flavored melange of musings from a mild-mannered malcontent - a bald-faced, short-haired, tame-eyed, narrow-tied Radical - who, smiling through it all, cheerily shouts a hearty "God bless us everyone!"
Good shouting, Jeff. Ditto on the letters and cards to Ed Brown in Hanover and to me) from Ernie Barcella, George Collins, Ted Germann, and Jim Walter. We'll get to their glad tidings in just a moment - or, if space runs out, in the next column - but first, a word about Reunion:
If you haven't yet planned to be with us June 10-13, try hard to arrange it; if you've decided Yes but haven't yet notified co-chairmen Harry Gilmore and Bill Wilson, do so, please, with all deliberate speed.
Now, two quick caboose commercials: (A) Marty Dwyer's ragtag entertainment committee is hoping to put together a film-record of our Days at Dartmouth (1930-1934). To supplement what's a very limited amount of "official" footage from the College archives, the Dwyer Group is asking for the loan of any "home movie" material any of us amateur film-makers may have shot whilst we were up there as students. The same goes for any still shots you may have. Any and all material you can make available will be copied immediately and returned promptly. Send it on either to Marty or to me. (B) It's not too early to think about your one-time-only, 40th Year gift to the Alumni Fund. In fact, it's not too early even to make it!
As Ted Germann, writing from Staatsburg, N.Y., put it: "I like what I've been reading about '34 in June '74 - seems just the right time for me to celebrate three great events: I). my youngest, fourth daughter to attend Vassar, graduates in the Class of '74, thus making possible 2) my second and final retirement, this time teaching at Bennett College - though I'll have a twinge of regret at leaving all those lovely girls ... and 3) the gathering of the Sages of Dartmouth '34 to commemorate the miracle of our Making It - can it possibly be full 40 years ago?
"On this lovely mid-October afternoon, the fall colors along the banks of the Hudson are so beautiful ... May it be thus with us all until we meet in June!"
Which is just about four months from the time you'll be reading this. Let's get in touch before that, huh, with a card or letter? Soon, please - to keep Ernie, George, and Jim company in our next communiqe from Vesey Street.
Secretary, 340 East 51st St. (14-A) New York, N.Y. 10022
Treasurer, Box 867, Hanover, N.H. 03755
