OK, this is very weird. Out of the blue, I remembered the smell of the yellow lined paper my first grade teacher, a blankety-blank anti-semite named Mrs. Lynes, would pass out for “pre-tests” during the week. It was a musty scent, not unlike a grandma’s coat closet, sans mothballs. (First-grader joke: “Ever smell mothballs?” Response: “Sure.” Reply: “Well, how do you get their little legs apart?”) The stomach of the six-year-old kid that was me would clench, as the paper was distributed to each row of pupils in class 1-1 in P.S. 86. I was afraid to fail, afraid of repercussions of a poor grade. Afraid of Principal Kline, who was — how do I say this delicately? — a prick.

In time, other smells of youth informed my sense of the adult world. These include:

Scotch/Cigarettes/Newsprint: This is how my dad smelled when he came home from work, after 45 minutes on the Woodlawn Express from downtown to Fordham Road. It was, for me, what men should smell like. That, and top-notes of Old Spice after-shave.

Gasoline: I loved the smell of gasoline. My dad would drive our used ’60 Olds into Mike’s Texaco station on Bailey Avenue and Mike would fill ‘er up. The smell of gasoline meant adventure. Power. Machinery. It was divine.

Alexander’s Vestibule: Alexander’s Department Store (“Uptown, It’s Alexander’s!) was my home away from home. In younger days, I’d be schlepped there to buy school clothes (always irregular huskies). As a teen, I’d head to the basement to buy LPs (coded C, D, or E for the double-albums), either monaural or stereo. When I was feeling flush, I’d pop the extra buck for stereo. But the smell! As you opened the door to the side entrance on 190th Street, there was a certain scent. Was it the smell of steam heat mixing with the snow residue from our galoshes? Was it carpet off-gases? Was it being pumped in to stimulate our parents’ desire to shop? (In Vegas, they pump in oxygen to keep the gamblers going.) It was a curious smell, but it meant (a) I’m getting stuff, and (b) I’d have to wait while my mother and grandma endlessly perused tables tossed with apparel as sales associates screamed behind us: “WATCH THE RACK! WATCH THE RACK!”

Loewe’s Paradise Lobby: Ah, now we’re talkin’! On Saturday’s we kids would have a choice of activities. Play sports. Bowling at the upstairs lanes near Krum’s. Slot car racing at the place on Sherman Avenue in Inwood, or movies. And movies meant the Paradise, the RKO Fordham, the Lido, the Valentine, the Grand, the Ascot (where I saw my first “art film”: Closely Watched Trains). Best of all was the Paradise, one of the company’s seven “wonder theaters”. We paid our 50 cents at the booth, stooping down to appear shorter in order to get the 12-and-under ticket price. inside, the carpeting was plush, goldfish swam in marble ponds, brass railings directed foot traffic — and the glorious scent of fresh buttered popcorn filled our nostrils with atomized carbs. From inside the closed theater doors, we heard a muffled “BOOM…BOOM…” The movie was “Guns of Navarone” and we little kids knew from the sound it would be action-packed with minimal “talking parts” and virtually no icky “love parts”. We got a small bag of popcorn for 15 cents and headed to the children’s section, where flashlight yielding matrons policed our every move, and threatened us when we noisily rolled our empty bottles of Yoo-Hoo we’d smuggled in down the aisles. Our fingers greased with popcorn butter, we’d wipe our grubby hands on our cuffed jeans and watch as the Allies beat those Nazi bastards.

These are just a few of the smells I remember from my early Bronx days. What are yours? Let me know.

In Westchester County, an affluent address just north of New York City, spring has sprung. Irvington, once one of a string of Lower Hudson Valley armpit towns, and the long-ago home of Washington Irving — he of Sleepy Hollow, Headless Horseman fame — is alive with pleasure. Pleasure greater, even, than that of a Newport cigarette.

It is Saturday, and I am taking my wife shopping at Eileen Fisher. I am at peace and reminded of that lovely song by the Decemberists, “June Hymn.” When I say “at peace” it’s a relative term, for I am forever fomenting. The brown river water laps the Irvington shore. I lean over the rusted metal Hudson River railing and spy the George Washington Bridge to the south. To the north, that jazzy new Tappan Zee just upriver. The latter is now called the Mario Cuomo Bridge, but fuck that. I don’t call the Interboro Expressway the Jackie and I don’t refer to the Triboro Bridge as the RFK, either. Some might beg to differ, but I think of myself as a traditionalist blessed with timeless values.

Much like the fashion of Eileen Fisher.

At tonight’s the Met Gala, I daresay no boldfaced name will say “Eileen Fisher” when asked “So…who are you wearing?” The House of Fisher began back in the 80s, when Eileen started her little company in the Village with a few hundred bucks in the bank and a smattering of SKUs. Today, Eileen Fisher’s company is an international power brand with northward of $800 million in annual turnover.

That’s a whole lotta linen.

Saturday, eleven o’clock, and the parking lot down by the riverside is packed with Volvo plug-in hybrids, for this is a sustainability-driven clientele. No wonder Eileen Fisher headquarters and store are here. No wonder the company rebranded their “used clothing” (such a declasse term!) program. It is called “Renew”. These pieces, according to the company website, are “Gently Worn Clothes — Wardrobe staples you’ll reach for again and again. In fabrics that stand the test of time.”

There’s a lotta money in that used white crepe.

The 5,000 pound, $70,000 Volvo SUVs — four-wheel drive behemoths rivalling size of the Conestoga wagons that once crossed the prairies — are parked. The closest these tanks get to going off-road is the gravel parking lot of the Amagansett farmer’s market, but I digress.

Vehicle occupants flit to the store’s front door like iron filings magnetically drawn by the allure of sustainably crafted Tencel twill pants suits. Tencel is derived from the cellulose of wood pulp, sourced from (what else?) sustainably harvested Eucalyptus trees.

The apparel is attractive, well-crafted, easily mixed-and-matched, ridiculously expensive, and safe. You can’t go wrong, for every piece goes with every other piece, snapped together like linen Legos.

I see a featured outfit, a very tailored hounds tooth suit that Tea Leoni, in her “Madame Secretary” role, might wear to a particularly important parent-teacher conference.

The shoppers are lighthearted and in full spending-spree modality, for it is spring, the sun is abundantly warm, and post-purchasing lunch awaits. Perhaps they’ll frequent the upscale Greek joint next door, MP Taverna (which started as a high-zoot Astoria souvlaki-teria), or the Red Hat bistro (cucumber and fennel martini, anyone?) where bread and butter is served upon request.

There is a frenzy of activity and dressing rooms are filled with frocks. As we approach lunchtime, credit cards are proffered and the crowd thins. Unwanted apparel is removed from the dressing rooms and re-racked by the store’s skilled, patient, and professional sales staff. These people work hard, and know how to do retail. That, in itself, is refreshing in an era of clerks who seemingly only know this disdainful response: “No, we don’t have that in stock.”

The good news for me is that store management intelligently includes overstuffed seating near the dressing rooms, so the shoppers’ guests can relax comfortably and provide expert, thumbs-up/thumbs-down advice.

My wife looks amazing in every piece she tries on. It’s a thumbs-up kind of day.

Outside again, the sun is strong. We load our Subaru wagon with sustainable bounty. The sky is still blue and I am still reasonably at peace. I look down-River, then up-River one last time. A few boats bob on the calm waters of the lower Hudson River.

And I think: there are worse things in the world than being the anti-Fiurucci. To paraphrase Elvis Costello, what’s so funny about “simplicity, sustainability, and timeless design.”

And what do I know, anyway? I get my clothes online from Cabela’s Bargain Cave. “Tonight, Marty is wearing Carhartt. Stunning cargo pants, Marty. Tell us about it, won’t you?”

I drive out of the parking lot, past the Metro North train station, and head back to the Bronx. And as I do, as the sun causes me to reach for my sunglasses for the first time this season, I think of this verse from the Decemberists’ song, “June Hymn”:

“A barany of ivy in the trees, expanding out it’s empire by degrees. And all the branches burst a’ bloom, into bloom. Heaven sent this cardinal, maroon.” And, then, that chorus:
“And once upon it, the yellow bonnets, Garland all the line. And you were waking, and day was breaking, a panoply of song. And summer comes to Springville Hills.”

For a Saturday of clothes shopping, it could have been way worse.

If you don’t tear up after hearing this song, you don’t have a human heart.

I haven’t posted since early January, and for good reason. Where’ve I been? Inundated with medical issues and related doctor appointments.

Long story short, I’ve been sidelined with medical issues. January was a total knee replacement, followed by arduous physical therapy. Breaking down scar tissue hurts. A whole lot. The eff-bombs flew as my physical therapist bent my knee to achieve optimal flexion.

“Breathe through it,” she’d say.

“Goddamit!” I’d shout, tears of pain rolling down my face.

As things got better flexion-wise, they deteriorated edema-wise. My operated leg got fatter and fatter. Then my other leg swelled up. Then I started gaining weight, for no apparent reason, and I was short of breath on the shortest walks.

I went to the doctor, after gaining 10 pounds in one week. He hooked me up to the electrocardiogram. Yipes! Heart rate of 200??? No bueno. He whipped out his cell phone and called for an ambulance. Then he ordered a crash cart as we waited for the EMTs, and called ahead to the ER, saying I’d be there in minutes.

Four days in ICU, and three days in cardio step-down unit. They squeezed twenty pounds of liquid out of me. They got my heart rate down to way under 100. My orthopedic surgeon, affiliated with the same hospital, came downstairs to visit me and check on my knee. It was not improving, as I couldn’t do the painful exercises while laid up in bed.

After three cardioversions and an ablation, I was released. Along with a short leash. No salt, minimal liquids, pills in the morning, pills in the evening. I sourced some very expensive pills creatively and now have an ample, affordable supply.

Every morning, I must log in my weight, BP, and heart rate. Thanks to various diuretics, I now plan my daily movements to ensure handy access to urinals. The fear of getting stuck in traffic, without a nearby men’s room, is constant.

Once upon a time, we’d laugh at the myriad doctor’s appointments noted on the white board in my mother in law’s kitchen. The laugh’s now on me. My weeks are studded with visits to various doctors. I’m poked, prodded, jabbed like a pin cushion.

Bette Davis was right. Old age is not for sissies. “Where’ve I been?” Battling, folks. Battling.

I annoy my family with my awful Brit accent and, especially, a phrase meaning “dammit” or “carajo!”

I drop the “H” and shout in a musty, late 19th century, Sir Topham Hatt voice: “Oh, Bloody ‘ell!!!”

Lately, it’s a phrase that applies to a spate of horror movies that revel, wallow, slip and slide in blood and gore. Well-done gore, state-of-the-art gore, but gore nonetheless.

Bloody ‘ell!!!

And I have to ask myself: “Self, why all the blood and gore at this moment in time?”

In the Great Depression, escapist films were the order of the day. Calgon, take me away!

Film noir was a popular motif as we licked the psychic wounds of WWII’s ravages.

Pictures that skewered the establishment splashed through the 60s and into the 70s.

I’m sure you cinemaphiles have many more examples of film motifs that match the cultural zeitgeist of their era.

These days, there is a raft of well-regarded body-horror pictures now available, with more to follow.

I’m looking at you, “The Substance” (Best Screenplay – Palme D’Or/Cannes; Best Picture Nominee, Golden Globes), “Nosferatu”, “Wolfman”, “Presence”.

Here’s one theory: At this writing, we collectively fear what’s coming once January 20th happens. We tentatively push the door open to our incoming administration and cringe. What horrors await?

Will we be trapped inside a haunted house (“Presence”, out later this month). How much can we truly trust our closest contacts to act in our best interest (“Wolfman”, out later this month). We fear the blood-sucking body snatchers capable of draining us of our will (“Nosferatu”). Of our very lives.

And, all the while, we obsess over bodily perfection and youth/vigor worship (lose weight with diabetes meds, just shoot up every now and then), even as our population ages out (“The Substance”). Who hasn’t dreamt of a better version of oneself?

In the world of high finance, it was once thought that stock futures could be predicted by activity at lower Manhattan hot dog stands. More sales, higher stock prices. Another measure: the correlation between the popularity of auto colors and economic mood. When times are good, bold colors make a comeback. When fear is in the air, consumers pick safer, neutral shades.

Oh, bloody ‘ell!!! Everything’s really OK? Isn’t it?

Maybe yes. Maybe no. What do YOU think? Post your analysis below.

I’m about done with the tears of restaurateurs, spilled to reporters as they explain why they’re closing, why restaurant ownership is so difficult, why this, why that — nearly five years since Covid obliterated the diner-to-restaurant relationship.

This goes for special occasion, high-end spots, and pre-Covid favorites — local joints we’d populate weekly.

I’m about done with restaurants serving $11 pints of beer ($8 at my local). And glacial service, as order after order flies out the door on the wings of Grub Hub. And $19 appetizers, $17 mixed drinks, $44 entrees, $8 espressos. And, perhaps most egregiously, $44 bottles of $15 (at retail) Chianti (the latter at my nearby red-sauce joint).

I’m about done with $18 for a large delivery pizza (+$4 for each topping). And $18 chicken-with-bok choy orders at the Chinese take-out.

I get it. They’re making up for years of lockdown. And rising costs of veg, meat & poultry, and commercial rents. And good people are hard to find (and about to get wayyy harder).

Guess what? Covid knee-capped my income — and disposable income — too.

The restaurant — and delivery — models are broken. They raise prices and reduce portions, and eliminate staff. Diners, in turn, forego the experience of having professionals prepare and serve the food.

It’s a race to the bottom. Deal me out.

Covid taught nubies how to cook, and lockdown gave experienced home cooks plenty of time to learn how to cook even better. We rediscovered the fun of having people over for dinner, and simultaneously lost interest in barreling out into the cold, in search of the new hot place (or revisiting neighborhood favorites).

A sad, sodden order of red tablecloth veal parm for $28, that takes 45 minutes to arrive tableside? Hard pass.

The restaurant (and take-out) experience once was a treat, not a chore. Not a punishment. I have access to topnotch butchers and seafood stores (thank you, Arthur Avenue), and I have an H-Mart that has the provisions for me to make my own lo mein and sizzling shrimp, thank you very much.

Jacques Pepin’s videos show how economical, tasty and easy the process can be. See: Jacquespepin.com.

And so, dear restaurateurs, save your tears for someone else. I’ll visit you, once in awhile, but not like the old days. Reservations? I don’t need your stinkin’ RESERVATIONS!

This morning I woke up to learn that my old backyard, Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, is on fire. The area is near the doggie lake, in the Nethermead section, where we used to take our tyke to the Halloween “scary walk” every year.

Who knows what started it. A cigarette spark? A still-burning bbq briquette? What does it matter, really, when the last few days feel like our whole world is on fire? Like our brains are on fire.

A few days ago, in Budapest, some Americans wept at THE NEWS. Yes, THAT news. The feeling is that a runaway freight train has been loosed, and no one, nowhere, will be spared. That is, no one but “the chosen few”, the billionaires, the so-called power brokers.

Does anyone remember the tales of those who leapt from ledges, their fortunes in flames, back in 1929?

“Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull, and cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull.” That’s what Springsteen sang around 40 years ago. How prescient.

There are freight trains running through the middle of our heads. People can’t sleep or even think. Paralyzed, they Google “tariffs”. “Authoritarian”. Or they simply play Wordle and post their scores on the Book of Faces.

There are those who think bad things can’t happen. That the system will be a fire-break and stem the conflagration. They are certain the center will hold and that our better angels will prevail.

We apparently have no better angels.

A recent trip to the Czech Republic, Bavaria, Austria, and Hungary proved instructive. We stood where 85+ years ago, men and women cheered an Austrian housepainter, a little man with a funny mustache and a way with words. These citizens of the post-WWI trauma embraced his pathology, his promise of newfound pride for the forgotten, those left behind. It felt all too familiar.

Causation? A confluence of calamities, like the fires of Prospect Park. Bad things can, and do, happen. Where I visited, millions were murdered. Walls were built and cities partitioned. Dreams were demolished. All by cruel, damaged little men with withered, dark hearts.

Humanity is capable of greatness. But ultimately, the species is sad. How disappointing is it that we cannot remember the ghosts of the past. Instead, we cling with a limpet-like grip to our optimism bias.

We are a failed, silly, species.

In Prague, in Budapest, the streets bustle and, yet, there are top-notes of despair and cynicism that pervade the zeitgeist. Nothing good can ever really happen — that was the vibe in some quarters, where people had the positivity beaten out of them for many years.

Is that where we’re headed?

We used to laugh when we were kids and heard this old fart, Jimmy Durante, sing “September Song”. So maudlin. So trite.

But, really, so scary.

For the song, written by Durante (known to us only from his likeness on Saturday morning cartoons!) prodded us to think that, one day, our parents would die.

One day, WE would die. GULP!

So we laughed (past the graveyard, yuk yuk) at the song. But the grim reaper always has the last laugh.

I sit on my terrace and watch my two kittens at play. They are a bonded band of brothers. They roll around and alternately bite each others’ necks and then hug it out. My mind spins. I think about my sister. We are estranged. That is a polite way of saying we gave up trying to maintain a relationship. I’m sure she has her fairytales about me. I certainly feel as if I gave her every opportunity to be in my life, only to have her nuke each and every moment with inappropriate — no, check that: gratuitously hurtful — behavior. Whatever. Woulda, coulda, shoulda.

On with the show. No longer a slave to client-facing assignments, I spend my days immersed in my passions. Writing stories. Learning music. Reading and watching my favorite old movies and seeing new ones.

Oh, and then there’s this: I ordered a new piano. It is coming next week. Here’s a photo:

When I was a kid, we didn’t have the space or money for such a magical instrument. Now, while there’s time, I’m ready to live “the life of Riley” (a reference to an old radio and TV show). I’ll be honest. I cried a little when I finally pulled the trigger on this purchase. It took so long for the fulfillment of this dream.

On the terrace, Felix and Oscar now swish their tails and pretend to hunt birdies as I ruminate on past glories and failures. What was, and what could-have-been. I think about my family’s story arc. I consider the many dreams deferred. I explore the myriad relationships ruined, but I am warmed by the new families and friendships I’ve kindled in recent years.

Just the other day, the parents of my son’s new wife (and, wow, she’s the best) wished us a happy New Year. Some people have class. Some people are just plain shtunks. You know what I’m talking about, right?

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” That’s the last line in “The Great Gatsby”. And you know what they say here in the Bronx: Pa’lante! ONWARD!

I mean, really…what choice do we have?

Bongos sound great. I love the evocative tone, which is a bit exotic, even dangerous. Bongos and congas and timbales get you up and moving. Sheila E.! I mean, c’mon.

But. (There’s always a “but”, n’est-ce pas?) In my early days, getting bongos was code for a sad second choice. See, when I was a kid in the Bronxy part of the Bronx, we lived in a rent-controlled apartment with a pain in the ass super and pain in the ass neighbors. And, alas, we lived paycheck to paycheck. No money for cool stuff.

I wanted to play a musical instrument. First choice: PIANO!!!! Oh please please please??? NO!!!

I want to play drums. Oh please please please please??? NO!!! Just a snare drum??? NO!!!

So I thumbed through the Lafayette catalog’s musical instruments section and picked out a snare and cymbal set and showed it to my dad. NO!!!

But. (There’s always a “but”.) One day he came home with a package and handed it to me. Open it up, it’s for you, he said. It’s bongos. Tunable bongos.

Well I loved bongos, and howled when I heard them used on various Hanna-Barbera cartoons.

But jeez, I really wanted to learn a musical instrument and thought I’d really be good at it.

Fast forward to 2001. I’m making some money, finally. It’s summer. I pass the newsstand on Brooklyn’s Seventh Avenue and Union Street. There’s a take-one flier for guitar lessons. First lesson, in your home, free. I call. I start. I learn. It kept me sane in those horrible months after 9/11. My boxer (doggie) would lie on my bed as I strummed chords to “Flying Shoes”, the song that most matched my mood.

But still no piano.

After 25 years in Brooklyn, we moved to a part of the Bronx my parents made fun of when I was a kid. They made fun of it because they could never in a million years afford it.

I met a guy who was a BFD at Juilliard. Just for shits and giggles, one day I asked him if he knew anyone willing to teach an old dog like me some new tricks. That is, teach me how to play piano.

Turns out, he sure did. His prize doctoral student. My wife got me a Yamaha 88-key electronic piano. Every week for two years, I met him at the school and he signed me in and I learned theory and scales and flips and sight-reading on Hamburg-build Steinway grand pianos.

I was a kid in the proverbial candy store. That is, until the school went into lockdown. Undaunted, we continued lessons on FaceTime. We continue to this very day.

But the keyboard wasn’t an acoustic piano. It was good. It served the purpose. But it was bongo-adjacent.

Fast forward to this very day. My research was complete. I road tested a bunch of pianos. Made of spruce, mahogany, steel, brass. I made a decision.

This bad boy is coming to my home in the weeks ahead. It took a long time. But it happened. No more sad second choices, not at this stage of life. Oh please please please, I begged myself when I reasoned that it was too expensive, too big, too this, too that.

OK, I told my inner little kid. OK, you can have it. And after many decades, I gave myself permission to birth my dream.

Ah, liverwurst. Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

No more Boar’s Head liverwurst. They brought it on themselves. There’s no place for lousy quality control, and that Virginia plant deserved to be closed. Nevertheless, liverwurst has a flavor profile that can’t be beat. (Full disclosure: my last liverwurst sandwich was probably a good five years ago. But still…)

Even The New York Times’ Dan Barry wrote about this loss. Who needs madeleines! The Proust is in the pantry, alongside the onions, and hearty horseradish-infused mustard. Sometimes you just need that luncheon meat fix.

Think about this: McSorley’s. Many beers, light and dark. Liverwurst with raw onion and lots of mustard. LOTS of mustard. More beer. That’s all you need to know.

Except for when you (ok, ME) have a hankering for: olive loaf. Spiced ham. Bologna and American on a hero with mustard. LOTS of mustard. And, when the weather cools: pickled herring, with lots of onions, and black bread with really good butter. Kielbasa, with sauteed apples and caraway seeds. German potato salad, peppered with celery seeds. And mustard. LOTS of mustard.

And a bottle of Jever, or six.

We (mostly) eat healthier now. That’s why we’re not dropping dead of MI’s at age 55 as some of my friends’ dads did back in the day. We exercise, watch the carbs, swallow our statins, like good little boys and girls. But sometimes you want to go off-road. Remember the flavors and joys of our early years, when a lunchbox packed with luncheon meat sandwiches and some Pecan Sandies or Lorna Doone shortbread cookies were a welcome respite from learning about pints and quarts? (Which my idiot sister never quite mastered, but that’s another story for another day).

I hit the gym every other day, and work out with a personal trainer. I look better and feel better. Yet I know: “no one here gets out alive.” Sometimes, ya gotta live a little.

Because: everything in moderation, INCLUDING moderation. Where is the lie?

McSorley’s Old Ale House is on East 7th Street. They still have liverwurst on the menu ($6!!!). And Schaller & Weber? Second Avenue just south of 86th Street. They have Braunschweiger Liverwurst, horseradish mustard, and more.

Just add:

Trust me, you can’t go wrong.

Summer wanes. The days are still hot, but the nights turn deliciously cool. Windows remain open and air conditioners are finally unplugged.

In the heat of the day, a verdant vista remains. Not a tree has turned to blaze yet, not a-one. The school year, though, has begun, and my mind turns to yesteryear.

You’re a kid, in the old days of NYC. It’s hot and humid and you have no a/c, because your apartment is wired for 60 amp service. Fifteen amp glass fuses blow with great regularity. Plus, who has money for a/c?

Your dad is working late, your mom is working too, and your sister? Who the hell knows where she is.

Homework is done. It’s dinner time, but there’s no dinner. So you go to the arctic a/c of Pizza Haven, on Kingsbridge Road, your local pizza place, and order four slices to stay, very hot, and a large orange drink. This is a beverage that has as much in common with real fruit as Spam has with a porterhouse steak. But it’s cold, it’s sweet, and it tastes great, and: you’re a little kid, so what do you know from nutrition?

Gino, the pizzeria owner, slides your slices from a countertop “house pie” onto his scarred wooden peel and slips them into his Baker’s Pride oven. He gives them a nudge and flips the oven door closed. It will take a while. Your sweat will turn to icicles. It’s a 65-degree meat locker in there.

Your stomach growls.

As you wait for your dinner, you fish a dime out of your sweat soaked jeans and pop it into the juke box. You press buttons to make racks and racks of record titles flip over. A-side. B-side. You finally find your selection. G15. Press the white key for “G”, then another key for “15”. A small vinyl disc, a 45, flops over and slides into place. It’s a song you dream of playing someday, while on your first date with Felicia Abramoff, prettiest girl in the class, prettier even than the Mouseketeers’ Annette Funicello.

You tingle to the sound of the sexy saxes that herald the wall-of-sound introduction, and then nearly swoon with excitement when Little Eva beckons: “Everybody’s doin’ a brand new dance now-owww…”

At last, Gino calls you over to the counter. Your slices are placed on a battered aluminum pizza tray.

You sprinkle your dinner with a blizzard of garlic powder and hot pepper flakes. You reach for a straw from a dispenser on top of the glass counter. “Just take-a one,” Gino chides.

“Do it nice ‘n’ easy now and don’t lose control…a little bit of rhythm and a lotta soul….” Little Eva explains. You float back to your table on the wings of puppy love.

You sit down, fold your first slice, take a big bite of molten goodness, and sigh, for Little Eva is convincing: “There’s never been a dance that’s so easy to do. It even makes you happy when you’re feelin’ blue….”

Jeez, it’s fucking hot out there, you think. You hope that someday, life gets easier. For now, though, this is as good as it gets.