1983

As I sit here in anonymity contemplating what to write in this distinguished column, the fact that I really never did like to write reverberates through my brain. Perhaps the saving grace of it all is that Judith Bell's name will appear above this column and not mine, associating her with this cryptic, pedantic sophistry for time immemorial. I, however, must state here that I can take but a small part of the blame for this particular sin against all Easy Jeff taught me to hold sacred; the real culprit here is your class president, Jim Gregg, who was too busy at Banker's Trust in Chicago to delegate this task to someone who writes for a living, like Lang Davison in Boston, or Will Cattan, or Tim Golden in El Salvador.

One of the many things that the dear old Dartmouth education nurtures in all but too many of its offspring is the seemingly valueless talent of being able to create theories with few or no demonstrable facts. This skill is perfected at the graduate level, where I believe they call it a "juris doctor." And this theory is along the following lines lots of people I know, lots of people we know, are getting married! Now this may come as no great shock to you, but I am mortified at the swiftness with which Cupid has shot his in-law inducing arrows of love into the derrieres of some of our fellow classmates. Picture the following recent events in your mind: the "fit for the New YorkTimes Sunday wedding section" unions of Kate Drislane (Howe), Rick Baker, MarkHausmann, and Jim Dompkowski: "the bride was dressed in a white chiffon flowing gown with an ecru train fit for Lady Liberty . . . the groom donned a pastel blue paisley After-Six tuxedo with all the accoutrements befitting a gentleman of his breeding. The cash bar had all the popular favorites, and the juke played tunes long into the night." (If you think this is tough to follow, try warming up with Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway.)

Similar, though as yet not quite as fatal, arrows have hit the bullseyes of Dan Albright (at LSU med school), LeanneEberly (at Dartmouth med), and GordonDial (at Tuck), all of whom have gotten engaged over the last several months.

I guess this would be a good time to plug the most funnest, most greatest, most not-to-be-missedest weekend of 1986 Dartmouth Night in Hanover the weekend of October 18 and 19. Your class politicos have accomplished a significant feat: the class of 1983 has free reign of Moosilauke for the evening of the 18th. So pack up your troubles and bring them to Moosilauke, where you can probably tell them to a psychiatry resident over some Talmadge fingers and green OJ.

Michael Colby sends word that he is alive and well in a graduate program at UPenn (sorry Mike they didn't tell me which one). Brad Armstrong is in Seattle (happily, I hope). Brad Gessner is tuning out of medical school in Florida for a year to travel around the world (and I don't mean Walt Disney). Michael Golub, son of Is, will be flexing his cerebral noodle at Stanford Business School this fall. JackCampbell is living in NYC and doing well, in spite of the fact that he got four out of 15 wrong on the sex test in the August issue of Cosmopolitan (I promised not to tell which ones). A 1 Bick has been traveling in Europe and will be meeting up with F. X. Jacoby in Greece, who is following close behind. Besides all of that, life goes on here, somewhere in the heartland of America, just trying to make an honest dollar, thankfully not as a writer. Keep those cards and letters coming, and remember, in the immortal words of Rodney Dangerfield, "You can do anything you want to do you're a melon!"

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