1977, and we're rolling in my mother's Ford Falcon. I am three, my brother 15 months younger. We are probably wearing snowsuits because the weather in Connecticut grows winter-cold, and we get looks and smiles from the tollbooth workers.
A year later we will leave this place, emigrate first to our grandparents on Reiss Place and then much further than East Lyme or the Bronx. Before that moment, I will wear a blue Mets cap and grin, with ponytail and tiny teeth, for the camera.
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Life is a minestrone,
served up with Parmesan cheese
death is a cold lasagna,
suspended in deep freeze.
Man, I haven't listened to those guys in decades. I heard their name means something really dirty.
Something dirty in a '70s hairy-armpit way? Ohhh yeah!
(Hand over mouth, voice hushed.)
Angel, the woman who inspired Deirdre in the novel, told me they named the band after the average volume of an ejaculation.
I think she told me shit like that just because she liked to see me squirm.
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