Worlds are funny.
Sometime around fifth grade, I — who was quite gangly and fat and had a weird vocal Frye at the time (still do on 1.5 of those) — started going to co-ed dances. I went to an all-boys Catholic school at the time (don’t ask, although if you must, my mom was a lapsed Catholic) so these dances were held by a “consortium” of all-male and all-female schools in New York City. I did not dance well either, so I was not “a hit” at these dances. I had three friends named John, Patrick, and Paul (almost Beatles) and I mostly stood around the wall with them at these things. The last time I spoke to any one of those three people was before 9/11.
I had two semi-successful “hits,” both of which happened in sixth grade. I danced with this girl named Laura Goodyear, who I believe was tied to the tire dynasty and may now be either a therapist or a communications director for a church. I actually think she asked me to dance, which for sixth-grade me was a big fucking deal, ya know? I danced with her twice, across two dances, and we never spoke on the phone or saw each other outside of those dances. Still, a seminal moment for little old fat me.
The other one was named Kathleen Moore. She went to Chapin. The “cool” kids in my sixth grade class, who I sometimes…
