24 to 50: 1986

It's difficult for me to look back at '86 without wincing. I was 25---that's half my life ago, gasp!---and I'd just gotten a good chunk of money from my dad's estate, and I thought I was rich.

I bought two cars, quit my job, and did some traveling.

That's the short version.

I'd always wanted a classic car; my first major purchase was a 1960 Studebaker Silver Hawk. I kept it for about a year and a half, but only drove it around the block once or twice, because trying to get insurance on a Studebaker---Christo, there's not even a category for it. I've had friends tell me I should have passed it off as a Thunderbird, but---whatever. I refer to it as the world's most expensive lawn ornament. It sure was pretty, though.

I paid my last visit to Staten Island over Christmas of '85. While I was away, S got burgled. She got a big pay-out from her insurance company, and decided she was going to take J to Europe. I, with more money than sense, decided to go with then, and quit my job.

It was a bloodbath; to begin with, I came down with a ferocious headcold the day before we were supposed to depart. Ever flown with a healdcold? DON'T!!! Descending to land was like having sharp spikes driven into my ears. J was in a manual wheelchair, and S found me to be very useful for pushing her or dealing with The Luggage.

Now, I operate under a very simple philosophy when it comes to luggage for extended trips: Don't take more than you can carry unassisted, I don't care if it's Tampa for the weekend or England for a month. She had FIVE frickin' suitcases for the two of them. I had ONE suitcase and a carry-on.

In those days, S had an exploive temper; we had two days of relatively tranquil sight-seeing before she went off on me for not being a morning person. Mind you, I was still getting over my cold and was a bit jet-lagged, and I've NEVER been a true morning person.

We split up. She ended up going to the Continent, I never made it out of London, but I enjoyed myself quite a lot. I saw the great Peter O'Toole in a production of Bernard Shaw's "The Apple Cart"---and met him at the stage door! He was absolutely gorgeous, and such a gentleman! I saw "The Mousetrap"---the longest running play in the world. I went on numerous tours, included the "Tragical History Tour", which was Jack the Ripper and haunted buildings and the like. I discovered quite a few bookstores, new and used, and read my way through Dick Francis.

When I got home and heard the gory details of S's exploits, I was satisfied that I'd made the right choice, although I was disgusted to find out that if I'd stayed at my job, I would've been laid off anyway, and could've collected unemployment.

The second car I bought was Leroy. What a land yacht! I'm talking about a big brown boat of a 1971 Buick Centurion convertible with a 455 V-8 engine, a 4-barrel carburetor and the gas tank that swallowed Detroit. (Srsly. 28 gallon tank.) He got about 8 miles per gallon city, 13 highway, and had power everything. We had about five good years together, until the transmission went out...but that's a story for another day.

I was also suffering unrequited love for Dr Bizarre, who was practically living at my place. Under his influence, I entered my "heavy metal and hair bands" phase. In a lot of ways, it was my second childhood, unencumbered by mean teachers or over protective parents.


.

24 to 50: 1986

It's difficult for me to look back at '86 without wincing. I was 25---that's half my life ago, gasp!---and I'd just gotten a good chunk of money from my dad's estate, and I thought I was rich.

I bought two cars, quit my job, and did some traveling.

That's the short version.

I'd always wanted a classic car; my first major purchase was a 1960 Studebaker Silver Hawk. I kept it for about a year and a half, but only drove it around the block once or twice, because trying to get insurance on a Studebaker---Christo, there's not even a category for it. I've had friends tell me I should have passed it off as a Thunderbird, but---whatever. I refer to it as the world's most expensive lawn ornament. It sure was pretty, though.

I paid my last visit to Staten Island over Christmas of '85. While I was away, S got burgled. She got a big pay-out from her insurance company, and decided she was going to take J to Europe. I, with more money than sense, decided to go with then, and quit my job.

It was a bloodbath; to begin with, I came down with a ferocious headcold the day before we were supposed to depart. Ever flown with a healdcold? DON'T!!! Descending to land was like having sharp spikes driven into my ears. J was in a manual wheelchair, and S found me to be very useful for pushing her or dealing with The Luggage.

Now, I operate under a very simple philosophy when it comes to luggage for extended trips: Don't take more than you can carry unassisted, I don't care if it's Tampa for the weekend or England for a month. She had FIVE frickin' suitcases for the two of them. I had ONE suitcase and a carry-on.

In those days, S had an exploive temper; we had two days of relatively tranquil sight-seeing before she went off on me for not being a morning person. Mind you, I was still getting over my cold and was a bit jet-lagged, and I've NEVER been a true morning person.

We split up. She ended up going to the Continent, I never made it out of London, but I enjoyed myself quite a lot. I saw the great Peter O'Toole in a production of Bernard Shaw's "The Apple Cart"---and met him at the stage door! He was absolutely gorgeous, and such a gentleman! I saw "The Mousetrap"---the longest running play in the world. I went on numerous tours, included the "Tragical History Tour", which was Jack the Ripper and haunted buildings and the like. I discovered quite a few bookstores, new and used, and read my way through Dick Francis.

When I got home and heard the gory details of S's exploits, I was satisfied that I'd made the right choice, although I was disgusted to find out that if I'd stayed at my job, I would've been laid off anyway, and could've collected unemployment.

The second car I bought was Leroy. What a land yacht! I'm talking about a big brown boat of a 1971 Buick Centurion convertible with a 455 V-8 engine, a 4-barrel carburetor and the gas tank that swallowed Detroit. (Srsly. 28 gallon tank.) He got about 8 miles per gallon city, 13 highway, and had power everything. We had about five good years together, until the transmission went out...but that's a story for another day.

I was also suffering unrequited love for Dr Bizarre, who was practically living at my place. Under his influence, I entered my "heavy metal and hair bands" phase. In a lot of ways, it was my second childhood, unencumbered by mean teachers or over protective parents.


.