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When I came across this photo of me from the late 1950s, I figured I'd better post it before either of my two mean sons got their licks in. Please notice the erect posture, the crooked grin, and the crew cut. The outfit, of course, is the GQ of the times -- a London Fog trench coat with the collar turned up and the two-inch wide necktie with the subtle tie clasp a few inches above the waistline. The only thing hidden is the footwear, which I'm guessing to be penny loafers with dazzling white athletic socks.
Thinking about this brought back a painfully embarrassing moment. When I was about 18, I landed a date with a hottie from Bayridge who was kind of a friend of the family. Trying to make my best impression, I wore a brand new pair of white socks -- so new they still had the fuzz on them.
We went to a neighborhood bar for a few beers. Being cool, I, as well as 99% of my friends smoked Marlboros. Having just lit up and flinging the match to the floor, I was leaning casually against the bar, when I started to notice a burning smell -- followed quickly by a feeling of warmth. My sock was on fire -- not exactly the kind of move that leads to a second date. |
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