sundcay

mgclzine
Page Three

inside:
page four-Lukas
page five-
phariacist

Number 20

March 21, 1976

FEATUR

ES

Advertising

for

lo ve:

A lonely waiting game

By CHERYL PILATE
SOME OF THEM laughingly refer
to their replies as "fan mail."
Others seem rather defensive about
their public acknowledgement of
loneliness, insisting that they are
merely victims of a stultifying
workaday world which allows them
little time to socialize. More than
anything, they resist being cast
into the ranks of "lonely hearts,"
despising any label which implies
they are losers.
The newspaper personal ads re-
questing friends, lovers, and com-
panions provide puerile chuckles
and material for endless specula-
tion for those who a r e hannily
coupled. But, for those who adver-
tise, the terse, paid-by-the-word
plea is often a last resort after
spending months of Saturday
nights with a bag of Doritos and
Mary Tyler Moore. And as with any
other kind of merchandising, as-
sets are paraded in stark, simple
style and debits are quietly ignor-
ed in hopes of attracting the right
person.
"Attractive, sensitive man, 25,
wants relationshin with attractive,
sensitive woman."
"27 year old professional man
seeks attractive, affectionate wo-
man, age 20-26 who enjoys music,
movies, and (preferably) sports."
These ads, found in The Daily,
are typical. Like most, they stress
desirability. The people who plac-
ed them say they wanted to at-
tract the sort of person who does
Cheryl Pilate is editor of the Sunday
Magazine.

not regularly peruse the classi-
fieds in search of a mate - some-
one who just happens to be stuck
in a temporary rut and is moved
by a fit of adventurous spirit.
RANDALL, who placed the f i r s t
ad, graduated from the Uni-
versity in 1974, but finds that most
of his old friends have long since
moved away. He is now a clerk in
a local hospital, although he hopes
to find a future in children's enter-
tainment someday. Soft-spoken
and pensive, Randall freely admits
"I'm not an extrovert." A deeply
religious Catholic, he hopes to get
married by the time he's 30 and
hoped that his short, straightfor-
ward ad would attract a woman in-
terested in a deep, and perhaps
lasting relationship.
"I didn't think I had anything
to lose," he explains with a self-
conscious grin. "Basically, I'm in
Ann Arbor so I can work, m e e t
some people and find a woman
friend - and I plan to stay here
indefinitely."
Despite his shyness, Randall is
frank about his virtues. He consid-
ers himself "gentle, sensitive, and
genuine," and wants to find a wo-
man with the same qualities. To
meet a potential mate with com-
mon interests, he goes square danc-
ing almost every Friday night and
has joined several church organ-
izations. "I feel that as long as I'm
myself, things will go OK," he as-
serts enthusiastically.
Randall sees Ann Arbor as a two-
edged sword. "It can be a lonely
place if you let it be. But it has
many social and cultural activi-

ties, and for young people it can
be a utopia." It is easy to see why
Randall, who grew up in a very
small Michigan town, is comfort-
able in the campus setting. He es-
chews many of the formalities of
the adult world and prefers t h e
traditional student garb of patch-
ed blue jeans and hiking boots.
With his rumpled, curly brown hair
and stubble-covered chin, he ap-
pears no different than the group
of students with whom he lives.
DESPITE SEVERAL replies to his
ad, Randall found no one
with whom he is interested in
forming a serious relationship.
But he remains undaunted and
reels off with modest zeal the long
list of social activities he has plan-
ned for the next couple w e e k s.
"The ad was just one avenue to
meet people," he explains with a
carefree shrug that seems intend-
ed to discourage sympathy.
Like Randall, Morry also failed
to find the right woman through
the classifieds. The 27-year-old
doctor, who lives in Ann Arbor and
commutes to a job in Detroit,
maintains that his social life is far
from being at a standstill. ("N o t
everything was deoending on this
ad. you know.") But his attitude
seems almost defensive, raising a
suspicion that his claim to the at-
tentions of many women is mere-
ly a show of bravado.
Later, as he recounts his busy
life in the hospital, it seems ob-
vious that his irregular w o r k i n g
schedule leaves him little =time to
socialize. "I've lived alone since I've
been 21 and my job makes it dif-

ficult for me to maintain relation-
ships and get out socially - with
men or women."
ITH A sympathetic listener,
Morry carries on a virtual
monologue, stopping only long
enough to take carefully measur-
ed, staccato puffs on his 120 mm.
cigarette. He decided to become a
doctor not because of his over-
whelming interest in medicine, but
because he finds it "intellectually
challenging." Short and muscular,

he seems extremely proud of his
bent toward athletics and says he
is very interested in meeting some-
one who enjoys paddleball and ski-
ing. When asked why he is seeking
a woman friend through the clas-
sifieds, a toothy grin spreads be-
tween his plump, flushed cheeks.
"I'm looking for a serious relation-
ship; I'm considering marriage but
not rushing into it. Several nice
women responded to the ad, but I
just didn't find them attractive.
Actually, I did have some reserva-

tions about using the personals.
When someone answers an ad, you
wonder what sorts of problems
they may have to use that sort of
mechanism.
"Basically," he asserts as he
emphatically smashes the stub of
his cigarette into an ashtray, "I
was looking for someone who
wouldn't normally use the classi-
fields and also had a number of
reservations about doing that kind
of thing.
See MATCHMAKING, Page 4

I


Patty Hearst: Satisfying

the people's need for

drama

EDITOR'S NOTE: David Margolick is
a former Daily photographer who at-
tended the Hearst trial on Feb. 13, the
first day that the jury heard testimony
from Patty/Tania on her experience
with the SLA. The following account of
that day's proceedings was written
before yesterday's v e r d i c t was
reached.
By DAVID MARGOLICK
SAN FRANCISCO
THE TROOPS have obviously set-
tled in for a long siege. They
have armed themselves with the
usual weapons - blankets and
down bags, thermoses and greasy
noshes, pulp novels and newspap-
ers--to kill time. They have been
here for hours and will stay for
hours more, jealously guarding
their places in line. By seven in

the morning, their ranks have
swelled to at least 200 intrepid
souls.
Only uncommon devotion could
possibly motivate so many peo-
ple to overlook the cold, the damp,
the uncomfortably hard sidewalks.
But what brings this crowd togeth-
er is a commitment to little more
than curiosity. They have come. to
see Patty Hearst - Tania's alter
ego. In a city whose dramas have
always been performed in the
parks and streets rather than in
the theaters, this trial is the latest
smash hit.
As the day breaks, the pace grad-
ually quickens. Reporters intent on
capturing their daily slice of
"youthful craziness" for the folks
watching the evening news m 111

about. The smarter squatters have
their impromptu comment already
prepared as one svelte young man
in a purple velvet suit (from Roll-
ing Stone, as it turns out), ambles
through the crowd. Shortly before
eight the gvernment employes sta-
tioned in dozens of anonymous of-
fices above and below center stage
appear on the scene. Most are used
to the commotion by now, though
a few are visibly amused by or
contemptuous of thesinvaders.
A Conflict of Laws casebook is
winding its way through the front
of the line and the first 65 who
sign their names on the inside cov-
er are the winners of today's lot-
tery. But what exactly, is the
prize?
THE COURTROOM of Judge Oli-
ver Carter on the 19th floor

has become San Francisco's an-
swer to the Fortress of Solitude.
The room itself is vintage Albert
Speer: totalitarian revival. Most
ominous of all is the florescent
skylight, which gives the room the
appearance of a greenhouse on a
perpetually gloomy, rainy day.
The rest of the courtroom is a
faded sepia photograph of mar-
ble, wood, and vinyl in various
shades of bland, with an austere
American eagle above the bench.
The absence of television equip-
ment in the courtroom - the for-
est of cameras, lights, boxes and
gizmos have all been relegated to
the press room 12 floors below -
gives one the false impression that
this trial is getting only the skim-
py coverage it probably deserves.
Without the swarms of obsequi-
ous reporters around them as they
enter and mill about the room, the
protagonists seem pretty inconse-
quential, too. Albert Johnson, F.
Lee Bailey's assistant, is the first
to arrive. Short, hair slicked back,
pot belly and a lapel button pro-
truding from his coat, he's a dead-
ringer for the sheriff in the Dodge
ads, an ideal foil for the danner
Bailey. He leaves, perhaps to sneak
a cigarette before things get start-
ed, and as he does he greets the
first family, Randolph and Cath-
erine and several of the more
anonymous Hearsts, who needn't
wait in any line to take their ring-
side seats.
-NS. HEARST walks with the mea-
sured gait of someone many
years older, and the same mono-
tonous delicacy of her movement
is apparent in her eves, now that
she is no longer protected by the
sunglasses she wore at all of those