#262

Michael went to a party Friday with girls. As a refresher, I tried to remember 7th grade parties in 1988. I was at a few. I recall boys peacocking around and girls arranging 'spin the bottle' and 'five minutes in heaven.' Bangs were everywhere. Above every girls restroom was a hole in the ozone. The music was Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. It's coming back in too much detail. If the boys commandeered the boom box, we played Def Leppard and Bon Jovi, and the girls swooned over 'Livin' on a Prayer.' How sad that M 'n' m will never make mixes by pushing clunky buttons to record and rewind shitty low-fi cassettes. They'll never handwrite songlists and mess up sticker-labels because they're head-over-heels for some cute girl (Michael) or some insensitive little shithead punk who thinks he's cool (Megan). Michael will never make tapes because he's hardcore into Ozzy and Maiden, like the kid next to me in 7th grade homeroom. (Great guy. We're friends on Facebook.) As for Michael's party, the parent-hosts, who I know from baseball, said there were no signs of shocking behavior. Michael's pretty mum, but I'm not over-worried yet. He doesn't overdo it trying to fit in (a trap that scares me). He doesn't wear Polo cologne and meticulously roll his jeans and de-lint the sweaters he pairs with matching turtlenecks. I was a stud. They say every generation is wilder than its predecessor. That's bullshit. Exhibit A: I'm a saint compared to Papa Mike. We all have goodness and wildness in us. Whatever the case, no one's an angel; I plan to stay aware and nosy.