A History of Love, Part 5

The years after junior high can be divided into three distinct schools: high school, military school and then back to finish senior year at a Catholic high school.

These were basically desert places.

Why so dour and sour an outlook?

Because none of it added up to the expectations I had. It  confused me. It confounded me. For the most part, it still does. I just accept many things now, happy not to have answers to all my queries.

Prog Rock "Sensitive" Nerds

We all know the great dividing wall in the high school between the haves and have-nots. First is looks and second, but not lesser than, is athletic ability. Have one or the other and no doubt, you are among the elite.

To even suggest that none of us aspired to the upper echelon is a lie we tell ourselves. Then comes the justifications. The smart kids use their intellect as their badge of honor as their superiority to the select social group. The cool kids use their coolness.  Music-heads and would-be players use music and so forth.

This nerdery is not really the cause of being on the bottom of the social ladder, but can become a rallying flag for sustaining it.

It can also become an island, a fortress and a place to name as your own.

Because so little of what was going around me made sense, music (the guitar included) became my island. When things got screwed up or everything felt like chaos, this was my safe place.

You're a Senior, Buddy Boy

After the prison-like atmosphere of military school, I wasn't quite sure how to re-enter a regular high school. I mean, there were real live girls- everywhere. Sweet barbecue Elvis.

Poor Helen. She sat behind me and she seemed almost as shy and awkward as me. She was sweet and easy to talk to. This is important if you "squirm" (an actual term used by a girl in my French class) around the opposite sex.

I used to do strange things like lift her and her chair off the floor with my legs. She would laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of my actions.

So, I decided to ask her out. Oh boy.

What follows has to be one of the worst dates on record. At least, by my counting.

Helen borrowed her Mammoth-Mobile family car and picked me up. We were going to a party. All I remember is hanging out, drinking beer and generally being a stupid teenager. At the party were the usual cast of characters, sans my friends, of course, because I had a date. No one wants to be around their guy world friends on a damn date. That's why we are out - to get the hell away from the monotony of male companionship.

There was a smooth black cat named Johnny who was clearly our school stud or at least in the top five contenders. Johnny had a black Les Paul that made me green with envy. He also dressed like brothers in blaxploitation films, as this was the '70's after all. I mean, silk shirts were the scene, man. Except by the hippie faction, of course, and that was flannel and blue jeans.

Frampton sold bazillions of albums
and then lost all credibility in the halls
of legit musos. His album was everywhere
and on all the time.

The usual party music was playing which was mainly dominated by Peter Frampton's "Comes Alive" album that was hated by our group of musos and lapped up by everybody else.

Somehow, someone (encouraged by me) slipped on Yes. Not exactly par-tay music, but I felt I had to impose my tastes on others. "This isn't music you listen to at a party, " Johnny began. "This is  more like music you listen to while you're on acid." Johnny wasn't being arrogant or hateful, he was stating the truth as he saw it. At that time, I resented the acid=creativity in music that most "heads" of my generation made, but much worse, I hated the dude for being so damn cool and a charmer.

Even Helen squirmed a little around this guy. Time to go. So, what I thought was going to be a most excellent evening with my cute companion turned out to be a bummer upon bummer.

We went to a makeout place that Joe had shown me. It was a dark cul de sac that was perfect. There, in the Mammoth-o-mobile, we lit our first celebratory cigarette together. Things were going well and I was about to make my first move, when a police car came rolling by and began to shine a spot light on the nearby church. Talk about panic in your throat, heart beating like drummer, and the feeling that something terrible was going to happen.

We watched and waited. Helen's face was filled with probably as much fear as mine. This was such a stroke of bad luck that I couldn't believe it. I liked her, but this was not going well.

The cops left, but we were in a heightened paranoid state and decided to leave. As she was pulling out, she didn't quite get the big boat of a car out far enough and scraped her car against a parked car. Oh man. A sickening feeling came with that as-sure-as-shit bumpy  feel and sound of metal on metal. Ugh.

Helen was not going to be kissing on me that night, that's for sure.We decided to end the evening. That killed my chances for that night and any possibility of any other night with Helen.

I think we both somehow felt ashamed at what had happened. I don't know why we felt that way, but that's how it played out. I felt awful at feeling a complete jinx-making our first date a disaster. Fucking up the family car and almost getting busted had to be her reason. She later told me that her dad had been listening on the police scanner and heard the report about a break-in at the church. Whether dad was telling the truth or not, it didn't matter. Done and done.

Not particular to my tale, but Helen eventually married one of her high school friends.

I could totally wrong, but I actually limit my trips down memory lane. I write on these subjects to test my mind to see what's intact, to improve my writing chops and to tell you (whoever you are, I haven't a clue anymore) the true and unexaggerated events in a largely unremarkable and uneventful life.

But, every blue moon, I find myself reminded of that night when I drive past the Italien restaurant that her husband's family owns. I do laugh.

Next: More Awkwardness

Into the Gray

Our actions have consequences. regardless of our intentions.

I couldn't understand that as a kid. A kid can never understand the vagaries of life until experience of such confirms that, indeed, every action we take has both intended and unintended consequences.

Thelma at the door.

Take Thelma for instance.

Thelma was the bright-eyed dog who lived next door. Rambucious to the hilt, she was a loveable maniac who was in that delightful puppy stage where affection slows her down just long enough before she leaps right up to lick your face. Leap, "BLOT" and a huge, wet dog kiss on your face before you can blink.
Of course, I fell instantly in love with her as she frequently was at our door, having broken free of every possible constraint.  For instance, when the fence was extended higher because she could bound right over it, Thelma figured out that she could leap up on it, hold her balance long enough as she bent down the fence, then bound to freedom.

Our neighbors never seemed like they even liked the animals (Thelma had a companion, Louise. Yes, that's right.) nor could they care for them; let alone deal with Thelma's running about.

We chased Thelma about. I petted her and loved her when she showed up at our house. I tried to encourage her to come to me, so that I could always return her safely.

Then neighbors grew tired of the dog wandering about freely. Neighbors grumble, neighbors have a low threshold, neighbors get itchy fingers.

Somebody called animal control. People reported animal abuse. The dogs did seem to be very thin and ravenously hungry. Of course, I fed them everything I could: dog food, bisquits and leftovers. I was not about to let dogs starve that lived right next door!

Then the police came to their door. The dogs vanished shortly after that. I was majorly bummed. My little pal was gone. I had bonded.
It took a while to catch my neighbor and broach the subject. I asked where the dogs had gone.

She told me that they had given the dogs away to a family on a farm. Gee, me thought, does the farm fairy tale really work on middle-aged men?

I can't pretend to understand my neighbor's ways nor their attitudes sometimes. They probably are mystified by us as well, but we would never take on the responsability of a dog (or two) without careful thought of the ramifications. I cannot image them ever reflecting on their lives, let alone their pets.

Thelma escaped because no one cared for her, so why was she ultimately the one punished for seeking out her basic needs?

Surely Surreal

Basically, I love photography and painting because of the way the images move me. They may make me think, feel or just plain upset my notion of what is possible.

I think I finally realized several things about myself: I love color, texture and shapes. Meaning for me, in the visual arts, does not have to be literal. In fact, I care very little about what the meaning is in a painting as opposed to my near obssesion about every detail about my favorite music.

I really like surrealism.

Here's a cool artist named Naoto Hattori. A brief bio thing here.

How in the hell did the artist even imagine something like this?

Music should be written inspired by this. Wow.

the wasp queen
 ?

A History of Love, Part 4

We all have our dreams. Mine was the ogre's
dream of love and romance.
And lots of the steamy stuff too.

"Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past."

"You can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one."

Junior high. Good lord! Can we spell awkeward?

Girls still scared the bejesus out of me, but a paradox began to emerge. I was the new kid and according to the attention I was getting, West Virginia girls saw something different than
"ugly" in my mug.

Yes, it shocked me too, but little came of it, gentle readers, as we shall see.

The highest interest I suppose was a supposed inquiry from Tammy, a cheerleader, about "Was I dating someone?" (What does dating mean exactly in junior high circa 1973? I bet it was far, far more innocent than today's post-Clinton-oral-sex-is-not-sex meaning.) Tammy was short, tan and very cute as I recall. I couldn't work up anything more than a "Hi" to her. Combine that with the fact that I wasn't an athlete and my general tendency to be of the creative, artistic (read "weird") type, my chances of being with her or in that social strata, were nil.

Ditto for Molly, another cheerleader, who lived only about five blocks from my house. She was very thin, blond and a bit boyish. She didn't turn my head like Tammy did, but I don't think I grew confident about my new status. Far from it.

Classroom Crushes

There was a Kathy in my homeroom that I used to walk home from school almost every day. With legs that reached to the sky and long hair that would be blown about by the wind, she was something I looked forward to at the end of the school day.

I would walk her to 50th street where her family owned some kind of industrial business.Truck drivers would honk their horns at her as we walked along the main road (Putting that in context now makes me shudder at bit).
That's all we ever did, talk and walk. Was I supposed to ask her out? How do you go out when you can't drive? The thought of my step-dad taking me on a date was too horrifying to even ask. Well, never say never.
Then there was Martha. Martha told me that when I first arrived at school, she was determined to sit behind me and get to know me. We became friends. She wasn't hard to like or get to know.

I may have even been on the verge of "dating" her when she suggested we go to the school dance. Only one way to get there: ask the step-father to drive us.

I don't recall anything about that night except the heavy awkward silence as we were taxied to the junior high gymnasium. The ride home was just as bad. My step-dad was an odd man and socially out of touch his whole life. He had a less-than-subtle was of watching you (and eavesdropping) that used to bug the shit out of me at home, let alone out with a girl.

Long after, Martha dropped a huge hint. She asked me if I had ever kissed a girl. "Sometimes you have to just kiss a girl."

I never did with old Martha, but an invite to a party was the ticket.

"Uh...you don't happen to have a bean bag chair handy, do you?"

Bliss Upon Bliss

It was an invite to Becky's house that gave me the first inkling of what it must be like to have a steady girlfriend.

Somehow in the malaise of mad teenagers running about, I ended up making out with Becky with the two of us nestled nicely on a bean bag chair. That was magical.

We did end up in the bedroom, in a manner of speaking. I don't know why, maybe it was the hint-of-the-century to the idiot lad, but we ended up there. Not that anything happened (That seems to be a theme here, yes?).

We stood in front of a mirror and she told me about the Mary Worth legend of conjuring her spirit by repeating her name three times.  I remember holding her hand as we both spoke the surly ghost's name, but nothing happened except, in my excitement, I broke an ashtray with a wild fist pound on the dresser top. Good job, laddie!

After that, I never had another encounter, blissful or not, as that one with Becky. Which lead my uneven mind to ask many questions about the nature of these encounters:

Why doth a young lass offer her kisses and then not any followup?
Why, why, why?

Next: A Desert Place 

Blow Not Thy Wind

"I want to talk about comets, flying saucers, Mozart and mostly myself
ad nauseum. I don't care if you really want to hear me."

Back in a previous blog, I decided that one of the reasons that I feel so brought down by my place of employment is that I felt obliged to answer with all due seriousness every crazy, every blowhard and every know-it-all. These lunoids are mainly of the classical variety.

But happiness comes from removing those elements in life which are unnecessary, regardless of what you believe is policy or the implied right thing to do because "it's your job." Live in simplicity-that's my choice.

I have stuck to my resolution.

Delete - it's so simple and so satisfying. I read not, nor listen.

Why?

There are many factors, but the short answer is I do not want any more damage to my psyche, inspiration or morale.

In music, silence is the frame for the sound.

Silence is the sound one finger deleting.

A History of Love, Part 3

 "History is the meaningful sequence of unpredictable events." ~ Albert Borgmann

Some believe that everything is predestined in your life. I think we only impose order on our past which is a random series of events. We see a path of destiny helped by invisible hands. As much as I want to believe that, there are parts of me that remain a realist.

The sudden passing of my father changed everything. The family spiraled for a while until my mom realized she couldn't manage two maniac growing boys by herself and so she got remarried. Long story short, we moved to West Virginia.

When I visited West Virginia to get used to what would become my new home, I thought I had gone to some southern paradise. The mountains were intoxicating for a kid spent looking at "rolling hills." The people acted differently, the accent was alien but charming and the girls were, quite frankly, friendly and open.

I heard this new speech when I was ordering at Long John Silvers with my step-dad. The girl behind the counter spoke in a way that was so very foreign to me. I have many 'Burgers (Pittsburgh) in my family and the whole rural Pa way of speaking was in my ear and this sounded more like music. Vowel sounds were drawn out, single syllable words could become two or three syllables. "Jeff" became "Jay-eff." for example.

Get to the Hot Stuff, OK?

Actually, this is no tell-all (how dull that would be) and I offer no names (unless they are so ancient it is irrelevant) or intimate details. The Internet is not place for details which could come back to bite my ass. Besides, you gotta be cool, right?

Hell's bells, boys, let's move on.

When I found that a very cute girl was living right next door to me, I could have come out of my skin. Coming out of my skin around the opposite sex was pretty much my M.O. I had zero game.

What I was beginning to discover was the girl who called me ugly back in grade school held an opinion that was contrary to the girls in West Virginia. I was "cute" and even though I didn't believe it, had no maturity to act on it, there was evidence.

Two houses down was a sweet girl whom I shall just call M. M was a tall, lanky, sort-of-awkward girl who had a liking for this lad of tender years. I used to hang out down at her house so much that I knew all her family. The grouchy, mostly silent father, her stuttering brother, her baby sister and her mother, who was the Rosanne Barr of the neighborhood. Her mom was one of the most colorful people I have ever met. Her personality was big, bold, colorful and sarcastic.

M taught me the inequity of attraction, that is, the other person is not drawn to us.She had the all too telling signs when someone has a crush on you: the endless smiles, the laughing at every joke however weak and stupid, the undivided attention. I recognized that when someone has it for you, you hold power over them.

M and I were just innocent kids. We never even kissed.

She gets around.

Terry was a girl who had a reputation for sleeping around. I don't know if this was true, but I was kind of in awe of her nevertheless. She was older than us and she did have a direct sexuality about her. Remember, I'm an awkward virgin with nuclear hormones at this point and no social skills.

One hot summer, I remember smoking some tobacco with her on the river bank. Then we took turns "shotgunning" each other, which lead to some kissing. Some kissing lead to some other more steamier things which lead me to come near out of my tree in lust. It's hot, it's summer time, we're wearing few clothes as it is and we're higher than kites on love. Ahem..

At one point, I got so frustrated that I just got silent. She asked what was wrong and I said that I wanted to proceed further. "If you tell me you love me, I'll let you do it," was her succinct reply. But, hell, I didn't love her. I didn't know what the fuck love was, let alone tell a girl you actually love her!

By all that is true, I couldn't muster up the words, even for my first experience of heaven. I can't stand back now, all Wordsworth-like, and declare this a time of innocence and a coming of age story. Hell's bells, I wanted a girlfriend in the worst way. This was lust, so why didn't I just lie and embrace love's opportunity?

Beats the hell out of me. I must have had morals.

Next: Don't Stand So Close

Hell Hath Frozen Over



Rock's most flamboyant and hilariously lovable frontman/asshole,
rockin' Diamond David Lee

 David Lee Roth returns to Van Halen and a new album and tour are planned.

That's something I never expected to see. Kind of like Roger Waters and David Gilmour hugging it up on stage.


The classic '80's lineup of Van Halen was most amusing to me. Not only was Eddie Van Halen changing electric guitar playing with his innovative virtuosity, but drummer Alex had a most distinctive and influential sound (sampled on Funky Cold Medina) and bassist Michael Anthony had a better voice than any of VH's frontmen. As much as Eddie's chops made my head swim and our fingers seem useless, it was David Lee as comic sexgod ringmaster who kept me in stitches.

Roth reveled in his reckless rock star lifestyle while counterbalancing it with strenuous workouts and martial arts. Eddie probably felt a little jealous of Roth's magnetism, plus, I can't imagine David Lee is an easy guy to work with, but it was clear to everybody who was bringing what to the table.

When asked about tension in the band, Roth told Musician magazine: "There's tension between me and the bus driver. We're not traveling at ground speed."

Or other quotable quotes:
"I used to jog but the ice-cubes kept falling out of my glass."

'Whatever guy said that money doesn't buy you pleasure didn't know where to go shopping."

"I was with a girl not terribly long ago and she said "Mr. Roth, I think you’re the oldest person I've ever been with." I said "Honey I was gonna say the same thing to you."

"The world's a stage, and I want the brightest spot."


Let's hope Eddie and DLR can keep things in perpective: Eddie brings the talent and Roth brings the entertainment and big fun.

And hopefully more hilarious quotes.

Death of a Dictator

Tears of sorrow or joy?

News footage of the North Korean people in mourning over the death of all around nice guy and dictator, Kim Jong-Il, brings to mind several points:

1. Tears of joy or sorrow? They can't believe their self-annointed god is dead. Are they happy the old goat is gone and faking it for the cameras? I imagine Big Brother there watches day and night.
2. What mad man will replace him? Give a meglomaniac a kingdom and he wants the whole world.
3. How many of the North Korean people secretly embrace the idea of democracy?

Panic Not

A few things to reflect upon after this week's events.

Panic is an option, but not a good one.

This little expression of mine is something I tell myself when performing before a live audience. I try to make light of what is essentially hilarious: me in the spotlight for one and how freakin nervous I get.

 I got to MC before a sold-out crowd at an annual holiday event. Everybody backstage was so relaxed and down-to-earth, but these people had done this thousands of times before. I was the new boy. I was watching my pulse hover between 94 and 104. That's like a mild treadmill pace for me, but generally my pulse runs a lot lower than that. Panic is an option....

I kept hoping to find a way to slow myself down inside, but nothing worked. When this happens, I know that the only thing that will bring some relief is walking out on that stage.

Thank mercy for the soundcheck. At first, I felt a little winded and thought, "This will never work. Calm the fuck down." After facing an empty hall and bantering with the invisible sound engineer, this "first blood" was what I needed.

Still, being on a stage, even just reading from a piece of paper, takes practice. The band performs all the time-sometimes as much as three times or more a week. Plus, with the chops they possess, it flows out of them like water. They had their game down ten-fold.

In the end, things went well and everybody had nice things to say.

So kids: panic is an option,

but tell panic to go outside and wait in the car.

 You'll be out after the show.

As the Crow Flies

Call it something spiritual.

Oh no. He used that word. Let the arguments ensue.

I see that spiritual life, in any unconventional form, brings up the same sceptical attitudes over and again.

Spiritualism is not simply a question of rules, regulations, morality, ethics and the appropriate punishment for violation of such. Spiritualism is very different from religion. Spiritualism is what you do to commune with yourself and the world, both seen and unseen.

Morality doesn't enter my mind when I watch crows circle in a cloudy sky. Down near 53rd street, crows have been gathering on this one tall tree by the river. If you just pause and watch, something changes in you. You begin to sense something. I don't athropromorphize the crows. I don't judge them, I just watch. It's beautiful. It's spiritual to me.

Of course, this suspicious behavior brings out neighbors who want to know what this crazy man is doing. "Watching crows," I said to the lady, who came out to see what was going on, before she could mouth the question that was already on her face.

Why? Why would anyone stop and watch some stupid birds?

I'm surprised the police didn't show up.

TV talk

Stuff that's worth your time.

Best actor, Michael Pitt. You'll see.

1. Boardwalk Empire. I never thought after the Sopranos that HBO could ever produce another hit series. As Boardwalk draws to a close, this has been superb. The cast is one of the strongest I've ever seen in any movie or on TV. It's that simple. Prediction: multiple Emmys. I'll buy ya lunch if I'm proven wrong.

2. Homeland. Although reaching the season's end, Homeland is just getting started and each episode rewards the viewer with twists that challenge the mind and stir the emotions. Claire Danes is excellent as the more-than-slightly unstable CIA agent who has been hot on the trail of Sgt. Brody (Damian Lewis).

3. Dexter. Why do we root for a serial killer? Because he satiates his "dark passenger" by murdering people who are worse? Whatever the moral vagaries, we watch because this series keeps moving and lets the characters' actions speak for themselves.

4. Hell On Wheels. I had low expectations for this AMC series, but this gritty vision of the "Union Pacific Railroad's westward construction of the first transcontinental railroad" is unflinchingly brutal and savvy. SPOILER:

The fight scene was a little weak, but the aftermath was great.

Moot point: It goes without saying that Big Bang Theory is the best ' com on telly today.

I Coulda Been a Contenda
The Walking Dead "mid-season finale" closed with an episode that had a glimpse of the potential that this series has so consistently failed to reach. Drag, drag, drag, talk, talk, talk. If I want that, I'll watch the Lifetime network. Will someone step up and save this series????

Brit stuff:
Whitechapel. Worth a watch.

Real duds:

Unforgettable. I didn't think that the "watch me watch myself in the video vault of my mind" trick would be the reason to watch. Dull and predictable.

Person of Interest. Started out good, then fell flat. Can't say why.

Two and a Half Men. OK, now I'm starting to miss Sheen. Kutcher's lonely hearts club band song is a bit of suspending disbelief. He's funny, but Alan and his dopey son seem like they belong to another sitcom. The three are not coming together in a convincing way. You can see the strain.

Two Broke Girls. They have a horse that lives with them in NYC. Can I have the number of the doctor who precribed the medical marijuana? Laughs are occasional when el skeezo Jonathan Kite lets loose a way inappropriate invitation to love-which is all the time.

A History of Love, Pt. 2

Get Thy Bearings

In junior high, whilst still living in Pennsylvania, this amorous mess still continued.

There was a girl named Cindy who thought me cute. I was a bit taken back and way too backwards to know how to react. I certainly wasn't sure of myself at all. I do remember she had perfect blond hair and she wore a brace on one of her legs. The brace didn't bother me and I never asked. This was long before anyone at all had any sensitivity to a disability. At the end of the school year, she gave me her picture and wrote, "To the cutest boy in town. Love, Cindy." I think my brother, kind soul that he is, made fun of her.

Well, hell's bells boys (a drafting teacher used to say that). This might not be bad.

Enter Darkness

The move to Charleroi Area High School was a cold shower and a quick introduction to the inherent cruelty of kids this age. Again, this was back in the days when bullies roamed the halls, free to do whatever the hell they pleased to any underclassman who had the misfortune of being in the pathway of these sociopaths. The area I grew up in was pure redneck blue collar with a mill town mentality. As my cousin referred to them, before moving to California, as "dirty mill towns." Absolutely fucking right.

I saw violence on a daily basis. A senior threw pepper into someone's eyes and then excitedly told his girlfriend what he had done. A kid spit in my face, one guy taunted me as he stole the basketball from me that I had brought as part of a class demonstration, books were knocked out of my hands. In short, this was an ambiance of a state penitentiary. I learned to be aware, to mistrust and to hate. There were daily fights. Kids would sound the blood-thirst alarm: "Fight! Fight! Fight!" Everyone would gather to watch wild hay-makers throw by sweaty, red faces. Students and teachers got into fights. Now, it seems a little unthinkable, but this was Charleroi High School: brutal, ugly.

What did the teachers do? They were either rolled over, abused and eaten alive. Or they were hard-assed bastards who ruled with an iron fist.

It's a wonder I haven't ever gone completely off.

Sidebar: I will one day have to blog just about this time period.

Oh, back to our topic. I remember a girl named Robin who sat on my left. She entranced me as she would wear some pretty provocative outfits. She was damn cute. How else would I remember her name decades later?

Then the class hottie was named Kathy. She was way out of my league. I noticed that even the seniors hit on her. I was probably a tongue-tied mess around her. I certainly wasn't old enough to drive or go out on dates. I think I just stared at her. She was beautiful.

Where I lived during this time was a place called Lover. Yes, the irony is not lost on this old boy. Lover, Pa was pretty much farmland, but you could call it a more rustic form of the 'burbs.

Life out there was pretty much "guy world"- meaning it was pretty much male friends with whom you played sports, hiked in the woods or sat around talking about girls or school events.

There was a girl named Terry (Boncarosky?) that I used to walk across a huge stretch of farmland to visit. I cannot recall how or why the courage was summoned to talk to her, but my guess is that we had to have shared the same bus. I must have been around 11 because I used to sing "These Eyes" by the Guess Who (came out in the US in 1969) as I wandered over to her house. (Why my mom thought it OK to let me wander about alone at such a young age speaks of the innocence of the time and place I suppose.)

The whole thing must have been hilariously awkward as an early Woody Allen movie. I just can't imagine what the hell we talked about and how goofy it all must have been.

Redd's Beach circa 1955 (before my time, dammit!)

Redd's Beach

Each summer was filled with wonders and endless possibilities. I felt like I was released from prison when school let out and the glorious and seemingly endless days of summer were ahead.

When the fam decided to join Redd's Beach, which was a huge pool for its time, this opened up a whole new world. That world was boogles of girls all in pool attire.

My pal, Richard, had a huge crush on this one blond. I distinctly remember him talking about her constantly and she damn well knew it too. At the time, Herb Albert had a big hit with, "This Guy's in Love With You." We were all in the pool and she pointed at Richard and sang, "This guy, you see. This guy's in love with me." Can't say I blamed him.

She didn't reciprocate, but neither did she treat him as if he didn't exist. Richard was a fat lad and as much as we now pretend to be blind to these things, fat boys had "romantical" troubles. They still do.

I do remember some magical moments where we'd get into a splashing/dunking fray with some girls. I was a flaming heterosexual and I knew it.

If I could somehow enter a time machine and talk to that 11 year version of myself, boy could I tell him some things. One of them would be: "Kid, it rarely gets better than it is right now."

Part 3: He has to move in order to kiss a girl