[In the summer of 1979, between my junior and senior years at Princeton University, I had a plum job as an intern feature writer for Newsday, a major daily based in Garden City, New York. After the summer I wrote this piece for the September 12, 1979 issue of the Princetonian, for incoming freshmen. The anxiety in the piece about driving and gasoline reflected the gas crisis of that summer, which led to long lines at gas stations. My harebrained efforts to conserve gas and limit driving in my 1971 AMC Hornet got me into ridiculous situations. I’ve added bracketed explanatory notes to flesh out the last 31 years of life experience.]

Once school had ended last spring, but before my Summer as a reporter on Long Island began, I immediately immersed myself in the cathode hot tub of American culture. On any evening in early June I hunkered down in front of Colonial Club’s TV, deliciously slack-jawed while advertisements played the summer hard sell, showering this winter shut-in with scenes of beach frolic, the open road and heavy, heavy socializing. [Colonial Club was the eating club to which I belonged at Princeton.]

The message fit nicely with the brochures sent to the Newsday interns. TV said WHAT to do, while the booklets and maps told me WHERE to do it. (With WHOM was the problem.) Equipped with my first car, the Newsday social calendar and, of course, lots of gasoline, I was bound and determined to enjoy myself, even if I nearly killed myself in the process.