Dik's Ravings

Dik Saalfeld '80
Washington correspondent


Most of you are heartily sick of hearing me publicly badger Steve Amador about the thousand bucks he owes me from that bet in 1984, the one where he said there wouldnít be another Democrat president in the 20th Century. Heck, Iíve been after him for years. God knows it's wearing me down. Collecting money is usually something Iím on the other side of. So rejoice! He paid! In public! At Homecoming! With tears in his eyes, he handed me a personal check and announced his intention of becoming a Socialist. He promised to be more like Ted Kennedy, minus the tendency to unexpectedly lose dates and family members in large bodies of water. I gave him the application form and the reading list and welcomed him to the fold. Steve truly is a man of honor, albeit a tardy and fairly large one. I would have stayed to chat with him and maybe get some action on the next election, but I had to rush to the bank. No sense in giving him more time to think it over. This is why I prefer cash transactions, but beggars can't be Dik. In any case, I have sent his 10 brave Centurions into battle by ordering up my holiday supply of drugs, whores and ammunition.

I hadn't seen Steve Amador in a dozen years, so I wasn't around to good-naturedly steer him away from becoming such a lard-ass. Steve has his own zip code. His tailor is on retainer. His last three wives still follow him around because they can't escape his gravitational field. But don't kid him about it, because he's a bit touchy and somewhat unstable. Also, when you see him, donít ask him about his you-know-what, and for godís sake donít STARE at it.

Speaking of ammunition, Chris Klyne and his heartbreakingly babely wife, Jill, put in an appearance at Tom and Val Berg's "Moving to Saudi Arabia Kegger and Yard Sale". The story of why the Bergs have to move to a festering and repressive pit in the desert was made even more pathetic by the contrast to the Klyne situation, in which Chris, now a captain in the Navy, is base commander of an island in the Mediterranean. Lackeys, drivers, snappy salutes, casinos, swimming pools, movie stars. Meanwhile, over in the Middle Eastern desert, Val can't set foot outside the house unless everything but her eyeballs is covered in thick, black fabric, including her three daughters. In Saudi Arabia the penalty for beer is death, and don't even mention "Playboy" or the Sears underwear ads. Chris offered to send a nuclear-tipped missile the Bergs' way if things got too ugly. (Jill Klyne has learned all of the southern European languages; she invited Kelley and me for a visit, which we will take her up on, as soon as we find out when Chris won't be there.)

Chris Klyne spent the aforementioned picnic playing tag and hide-the-wiener with Tom and Val's daughters. He would make up new rules as it suited him, such as "no tag backs unless you chug a beer," and "you're out unless you call in an airstrike on home base." Kurt Dodd was at the picnic, too. Kurt works for Senator Byrd of West Virginia who, while he is technically a Democrat, nevertheless was once a member of a politically incorrect organization. Kurt made me promise not to mention the group, so I won't, since the Senator quit YEARS ago, and doesnít even have the robe and hood anymore. Plus, some of his best friends are black and Jewish, but not at the same time.

Tom Yazdgerdi, Brett Sylvester and I went striper fishing in the Chesapeake a few weeks ago. Yaz was satisfied to just eat the bait, but Brett and I went after the big boys. We hauled in dozens of hefty stripers, a.k.a. rockfish, a.k.a. striped bass. There isn't much finesse to striper fishing, as it merely involves bait and patience, the latter of which can be substituted by brain damage, unless youíre Brett, and few of you are. Here's a piece of advice: if somebody tries to use fly fishing gear in a clearly inappropriate situation, such as fishing for stripers in 5 foot swells in a leaky boat, donít make merciless fun of them until it is absolutely clear that they arenít actually going to catch anything. Learned that one the hard way.

Matt Schiff got sworn in as a member of the Supreme Court bar. If I remember the day we covered the Supreme Court in law school correctly, this means either that he can argue cases before the high court, or that he can slurp scotch from Sandra Day O'Connor's tits. Either possibility should make you pray for the future of the Republic.

So I biked around the Finger Lakes last summer. 400 miles in 6 days. After that I rode a century Ė 100 miles in a day. I'm 41 now, and I'm a bigger studmuffin than you were at 18. You should be ashamed of yourself. Your wife is. If Gibber were alive, he'd be spinning in his grave. But this doesn't mean you shouldn't go to Reunion in June. I'll be there for my 20th! If I miss you then, I'll be there for each of my next three 20th Reunions. We'll reminisce about my Senior Year, which is referred to here in DC as "the Carter Administration".

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