The Past, the House

I've discovered that when one writes blog entries and mentions people by name, it is indeed possible that the named people can eventually read those blog entries (especially when I provide them the links!)

So I'll say the following:

• Not everything I write here about events from the past is necessarily true (even when I don't provide a "may be exaggerated" warning).
• If I label something as "3/4 true" or "25% lie" it's quite possible that the true ratios/percentages are different.
• Overall, my memories of that time are good ones.
• The bullhorn was cool.
  

I will now vow to be more careful with what I say. Or I'll just use fictional names. Like the time me and my old buddy Barack rode our inner tubes down the Delaware River on a weekday afternoon in '85. When it started raining, we and the others convened at the Burger King back in town for an early dinner. I had a deep-fried chicken sandwich and deep-fried onion rings. I was wet from the river and the rain. It was at the table in the back, near the bathrooms, where I noticed that my other friend Sarah P. was looking at me in a flirtatious manner. She had long brown curly hair like in the bible.

Then, the whole group - seven of us in all - decided to go the haunted house down the street. What happened next is immortalized in this short story, one I wrote under winter duress in Minneapolis at the turn of the century.