What the F

Sometimes I miss the eighties. Sometimes I miss thinking that fibreglass, plastic wood and woven nylon could hold the whole world together. Back when space shuttles were still new.

Somewhere there is a photo of me in the eighties, I'm, at once, full of hope and full of terror. Terror that I had to go to school and all the other kids would be smarter and tougher and hope that I would somehow break my leg and have to miss my first three months of school. Just like my friend's brother's friend got to miss a whole term of school because he fell really badly while skiing and broke his leg in a complicated way.

And now that guy gets to work at a garage and he drives a sweet Oldsmobile Cutlass with a T-roof. The one with the fox tail hanging from the rearview mirror and the biggish tires on the back. Why can't I fix cars now, I'm sure I can figure it out. Why the hell do I have to go to GRADE ONE. I wore a nervous smile, a pair of dark blue jeans and a canvas Big Bird knapsack. (The one my aunt sent me in July and my Mom wouldn't let me use until September.)

I'm sure my mother had given me a cute haircut the night before. Sat me on a telephone book on a chair in the kitchen, in the middle of the kitchen so she could have room to work. Golden blond hair all over the linoleum floor and a big mustachiod smile from Dad when he got home from work. Me, not so sure I wanted my Dad to think I looked "cute", it might blow my chances at a ski vacation and an early career fixing cars for money.

Well I went, and I fought, and I cried and one day I threw up before my first day of high school. Unsure of how I would cover my ubiquitous boners with my new shirt which my mother insisted on making me tuck in. Found out that a strategically placed mixture of textbooks and binders could keep any shameful penis activity at bay, or at least hidden while raging. First kiss, joint, beer, acid trips, smoking and a bit of driving and a bit of screwing and I was set loose on the world.