I really had serious plans on being Pete Townshend. I didn’t practice nearly enough.
Probably my coolest moment – 8 or so and in shades at an Aunt’s wedding. I should have gone Kurt Cobain right after and I’d probably have been the coolest punk rocker ever.
My parents.
My first girlfriend, an affair which ended due to my cluelessness. I’m sort of rocking the same style as my father here. I was going for a Beatles suit thing, which would soon enough be known as the Reservoir Dog look, proving my contention that Quentin Tarantino stole all my good ideas.
Proof – essentially – that I once had hair.
My best friend Dave Allen. He was such a good friend that he once gave me that hat, until we both realized that he looked better in it and he wanted it back. Notice that I practically look like Wesley Snipes in this picture. We were very into tanning in college.
My long lost friend Jim Barber and I rocking our Kramers in a Lennon and McCartney shot that wasn’t to be.
I have no idea what Marshall Crenshaw’s debut album had to do with anything or why this was taken in my sisters bedroom.
Me trying to be Elvis in my room Senior year of college. That’s a bottle of Dep on my Bar Mitzvah TV.
I worked at a day camp the summer after college. This kid was insane, which was amusing probably 80% of the time. This was 18 years ago so he’s probably either in jail or a state senator by now.
Essentially, as fit and as good looking as I was ever going to get. This would have been a good time to have a fatal car wreck.
I stood up at my friend Drew’s wedding. I took communion. They were quite amused.
A disastrous haircut. I was going for a mod look, which the barber never did quite manage and it just got shorter and shorter as I tried to have him fix it. Amazingly, this haircut almost got me fired.
A company raft trip and a tour guide that sported the Pauly Shore look at a time when for some unfathomable reason it was cool.
Coaching my little league team. Probably not giving advice. Likely bemoaning the fact that these kids were all spending most of their week learning foreign languages or other edifying activities that didn’t help them catch a baseball.
My most reliable player. Most of my coaching efforts were essentially trying to make it up to him that he was somehow the only cool kid that got left off the team all of his friends were on. Eventually, I paid him to watch my cat and lent him my Clash CD’s.
Every year the parents would buy me a nice jacket, which would get stolen out of my car, which enabled them to buy me another nice jacket the following year. The kid to my right was probably the best player I ever had and essentially straight out of a little rascals short. Well, actually I did have a African American player for two games, who had never played baseball before. He played two games, got 8 straight hits, pitched the second game, and then his parents pulled him from the team over his grades. Sigh. We once played a team that was all African American. It’s amazing none of my kids didn’t get killed with all the line drives they were hitting. One of their players who came up to about my waist, asked me if he could use my softball bat, which was bigger then he was. I said yes figuring that we’d finally get someone out. After he hit a home run, they all started using it.
It was sort of my opinion that everyone in San Francisco, but me was either a snob or a heroin addict. I was routinely mocked by waiters at some of the finer restaurants in the city. “I’m sorry sir, but there’s no such thing as medium well.” “Uh, ok Einstein, how about you and the chef go back and do your best to decode my mysterious request.”
This poor bastard has no idea what’s about to hit him.
