I proselytized. I made posters. I saw David Lee Roth's video "Just a Gigolo"--and when he danced on the censors' desk, I knew that was where I wanted to be. Behind the desk, that is.

The fever broke when I was about 14. I think it was when Sheena Easton's "Sugar Walls" came out, and I liked it. Madonna and "Like a Virgin," then U2, Talking Heads, Led Zeppelin... Satan's music, and I didn't care. I stopped yelling at movies where unmarried people would kiss; I even cheered when Loretta and Tony slept together in Moonstruck. What was happening?

Davey was long gone, but the damage had been done. I loved a dissipated lifestyle but needed a spiritual anchor. Where could I find it? Thomas Jefferson was awesome, but he was a snobby slave-owner; and lots of the priests at my high school were insane. All that was left for me was confusion.

Which brings me back to Harvard. You. Section mates. You rattle off these great ideas in an amazing language I never learned. I get scared and I giggle.

Are you my new Davey?

Somehow, I don't think so--I'm not destined to be a Rhodes Scholar or even in Group I. I've come to terms with it.

Yet I feel a void.

And instead of measuring myself against wooden dolls, I cope through rationalization. I've gotten good at it. I've perfected the old "well-I-could-do-it-if-I-wanted-to-but-I-have-bett er-things-to-do." All set.

But the guilt is unbearable, and I'm still searching.

So if you're wondering about me when I interrupt you all with those dumb answers, know that behind my glib exterior lies a soul in torment and darkness. And please, act with mercy.