January 11, 1983 is a forgettable day in the hearts of the unleavened. Some guy in Metuchen sold his baseball card collection for $12. Freddie Torval forgot to do something. Me? I was so entrenched in grasping the gist I don't even come close to remembering what I did that day. If I had to guess, I was driving around in a car I didn't own, seeing people in a place not in my town for the purpose of justifying my salary which at the time was adequate. When you're 40 years old and Madonna is "Like a Virgin" you pacify yourself with endowed vicissitudes, which in my case was the capacity to enamor. I was still enchanted with Craig Hamilton's father's Lincoln Zephyr and nature bestowed on me the ability to arouse like the Boston strangler minus the asphyxiation. Didn't you ever ask yourself why you fold on the dotted line when your pants is telling you to tap and escape? Surviving 1983 took some luck and genetic destiny so forgive the self-aggrandizing here. Chevy might say I was there and you weren't.
