1981

Apocalypse. It followed me. For years in Hanover, N.H. - the coldest of colds, the frozenest of frozens - four consecutive winters. And now it's 27 degrees below zero: in Chicago.

I know it followed me. I mean, I've led a relatively sin-free existence. I've broken no more than 12 or so of the ten commandments. I haven't even committed adultery since fourth grade!

So why did it follow me?

I mean, my beard ices up before I even reach the mailbox. And I singed my eyebrows trying to thaw out over the stove yesterday.

Not at all a good month. But you don't want to hear about my problems, do you? (Say "no.") I didn't think so.

The Barbarous Coast. Land of sun, surf, and sitcoms.

Communications indicate that the Dartmouth junta in San Francisco has apparently solidified its vice-like grip, gaining a toehold in sundry parts of that town. Actually, with the deluge of mud covering the city, it's probably an anklehold.

Kim Young is at Stanford writing poetry and short fiction (but some day she'll be tall enough to write novels). Kim is basking in whatever it is Californians bask in while she gets a master's in fine arts. An extremely torturous existence.

Liz Eldridge is likewise at Stanford, working for a prominent doctor of sleep medicine named (Kim said this, not me) Dr. Demente. I know that it's hard to believe, but we are talking about Liz after all.

Skyscrapers and Everything. Just like I pictured it.

From the coast, Bill Barker is gradually losing all vestiges of sanity, as indicated by the following missive, which I have chosen to transcribe verbatim:

"So, Dirk, I'm alive and relatively well in New York, living with Dave Edelson, Mike Steinharter, and John Casaudoumecq (a new sitcom based on Three's Company called four'sRidiculous). And I've come to the conclusion that the world of Manhattan is made up of two things: pavement and sandwiches. Pavement everywhere you look, sandwiches everywhere you eat. I guess the ultimate would be a pavement sandwich."

Need I say more? Well, I will anyway.

Barker then proceeds to relate a spine-chilling account of the Dartmouth/Yale hockey game, at which the traveling yahoos of the Manhattan contingent (now including Mark Burton and Kirk Wilson) were met by Bob Higgins and Frank Cosolito.

"We engaged in an hour-long snowball fight with several hostile Yalies," he continues. "Victory was ultimately ours, of course, after 'Desert Rat' Burgess led a frontal assault and we captured the strategically-placed dumpster." Do you all understand now? These are the kinds of letters I get in mid-winter. And let me note that these guys are among the future leaders of society. Help.

New Mexicali Circus. Zoo story.

Sean Bersell has signed on as an account analyst for Albuquerque's First National Bank ("the largest, home-owned, independent, fully-autonomous, omnipotent, life-controlling, foot-stomping bank in New Mexico"). Sean was able to take time off, however, to catch Jens Larson's act with the circus as it passed through town. Introduced as "our Dartmouth College gymnast," Jens also performed as a juggler and gymnast. And you thought running off with the circus was passe.

Sean has also been hosting innumerable escapees from the north, including Sam Taylor and Chris Hunter, "a.k.a. Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Taylor II." You can really make friends if you live in the Sunbelt these days.

More Hot Flashes. Bits of tid.

Well, due to limitations in my spatial-temporal continuity, allow me (you don't really have a choice) to quickly run down some items of import and fascination.

Alex Dmyterko ("Big Tuna") is in beautiful Griffith, Ind., on the edge of that gorgeous, thriving metropolis of Gary. "Why?" you may ask, but I cannot reply. I report only effects, not causes.

An A.P.B. has been put out on Mark Heuberger. Heubie was last seen on New Year's Eve in New York City. He's been down in Virginia digging rocks and running an outpost for Chevron, so there's no telling what condition his brain is in. He is reportedly gregarious and dangerous. Approach with caution.

Roland Notermans is at Leiden University, in his second year at Holland's oldest law school. So if you're ever in trouble in Amsterdam (though I can't imagine why you would be), you can track down Roland for legal aid.

Also in Europe, but south of the Pyrenees, is Shelley Warren. Shelley is a T.A. in Spain, and rumor has it that she is engaged, but since she didn't consult me, I don't believe a word of it.

And finally, in the continuing saga of Thom A. Smith (the "A" stands for "At Your Own Risk"), there are conflicting reports of a sojourn in Virginia and citrus smuggling in Florida. I'll guess the former.

The Bottom Line. Postscript.

You'd better hurry up and write, or one of your friends will lie about you before you can do the same about them.

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