Roni Dinkes sent in these beauties. Her days at Camp Sequoia were "the best summers of my life." The images remind us of every social we ever went to. The anticipation in the run-up, spent executing one outfit change after another, amidst the arguments over who could borrow whose EG's and Temp a Temp. A thick mist of Body Shop White Musk hung over the entire girl's side. It was always worth it. As soon as the first track began to rock -- some Violent Femmes, B-52's or Frankie Goes to Hollywood, no doubt, true lovers would come together with a passion which knew no bounds, outstripping even that exhibited by Rachel Ward and Richard Chamberlain in the Thorn Birds. The rest of us would stand around straining to affect an air of nonchalant cool but barely able to mask the mix of terror and confusion which gripped us. And epic rock ballad could be counted on to warm things up. Eight minutes and fifty-seven second of November Rain. After that, the evening became a race to the prime make-out places -- behind the stage, in the janitor's closet, at the canoe house -- which with their differing levels of privacy, would determine the base you could ultimately get to.