Not Nearly

I’m not precisely sure when The Eighties began for me, but it was almost certainly around 1980.

It was when rectal exams were required for even the most mundane daily activities.

It was when Genevieve danced on tabletops for boozy Off-Broadway understudies.

It was near the corner of Houston and Avenue B, wherever that big building with the clock on it still sits (Red Square?).

It was when the Farnsworth Museum was caught dry-humping the Bowdoin College archives in a local scandal that old-timers never quite understood.

It took off like a scallop boat at dawn, covered in paste.

It bordered on lunacy. It bordered on abuse. It bordered on the superhuman.

It ripped open our last box of cereal, hands dug deep into Honeycomb looking for some sort of plastic prize.

It was the last time I went down those steps to the beach and looked out over the bight.