Dik's Ravings

Dik Saalfeld '80
Washington correspondent

Boy, is my face red. All these years I've been spreading rumors about Captain Chris Klyne among naval folk at the Pentagon, and it turns out he's really been saying "all hands on DECK."

Bill Webster '79 and long-suffering wife Ann Ruhman were in town over New Years, accompanying their two boys on their Trash the Monuments tour. They stayed at Kurt Dodd's house. This part cracks me up: Kurt stayed at a hotel. Kelley and I visited the whole crew at Kurt's bachelor pad, where we all learned Kurt's very disturbing secrets. Kurt never entertains at home, see, so all these years he has been able to keep us in the dark, but the truth has a way of dang, there's another part to that truth thing, but I always forget it. Anyway, Ann wanted to heat something on the stove and discovered that the only pot Kurt owns was packed in a box in the spare room. He's lived there for years. She then said "Kurt, did you buy a new stove? It looks brand new!" Turns out Kurt - and this is the gospel truth - has never used his stove. Ever. Not even to test it when he bought the place, 'lo! those many years ago. There are other eccentricities, but he gave me a tape of "Caddyshack" to keep me quiet.

Last month Bob Montione '80 and wife Jennie Mosher mooched off of Kelley and me for a few days, accompanied by their two kids. Kelley, a psychiatrist with training in child and adolescent development, instantly recognized how intelligent and polite the kids were. I asked Justin the five-year-old if he could name the Stooges, but he couldn't cough up Joe Besser's middle name. Some brainiac. Kelley tried to defend him by pointing out that at the time he was figuring out pi to 130 digits and was probably preoccupied while I, meanwhile, was trying to see if I could stuff 80 M&Ms into my mouth while reciting the Greek alphabet. It turns out, sadly, that I never learned the Greek alphabet, but the day was saved by Alyson the eight-year-old who knows how to perform the Heimlich Maneuver while reciting the Greek alphabet.

I was in Las Vegas for a few days last month. Kelley made me wear a note pinned to my lapel. It would have been quite humiliating had it not come in so handy. I tried to look up Mark Metz, who is rumored to be a card dealer there, but ran out of time, what with the arraignment and all. Rumor has it he has a wife and two little girls, but this is unconfirmed. This smacks uncomfortably of responsibility and commitment, which is why I shied away from calling him. Those of you who know Metzie are now bringing to mind the Indian-with-a-pillow scene from "Cuckoo's Nest." The last time I visited Mark was in Tahoe a few years ago, when he let me sleep on the floor in his spare room; he said, and I'll never forget this, "I'd give you the room with the bed, but I don't have one." I was living out of my car at the time and could have kissed him. He looked at my 25-year-old Dodge and said "nice place you have here - you finished with this Slim Jim in the ashtray?"

You would think that after 25 years of paying taxes I would learn all the quirks of the IRS and their pesky forms, but I still make silly little mistakes, like this whole "no insects as dependants" thing. When did they sneak THAT rule in there?! So I may need to hide out at your house for awhile, whoever you are.