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There I was, ten years old, getting ready for the biggest event of my lifetime: Wrestlemania. I sat in front of the TV with a container of Oreos, along with my plastic wrestling ring and my rubber Titan Sports wrestling figures. There was nothing else I wanted in life. The odor coming off of the figures was one that would make any ten-year-old think he was in heaven. I awaited the infamous promo of Hulk Hogan telling me to eat my raw eggs and Superfly Snuka giving me the three finger salute when I saw a figure appear on the television screen with sunglasses and long hair. This man would become an icon to me—I even impersonated him in the mirror for years to come. His beautiful manager, Elizabeth, was one who would make any preteen blush. It was only three years later when I knew that she would complete my first orgasm. Read the rest of this entry →
January 14, 2011 in Nostalgia
Weekends were completely predictable. Saturday morning, rise and shine. If you woke before she did, you could get in an episode of The Super Friends; really early and you would catch Wonderama or Davey & Goliath. Otherwise, forget it, no chance. My sister and I knew what the morning held in store. She would have her coffee—percolated on the stove in the corningware pot—and her cigarettes. Then, she would get dressed and put on a groove, like some Marvin or Stevie, or Donna. Mom loved Soul and R&B, and she could dance—for that I owe her much. If anything, she certainly made it fun. It was her equivalent of “whistle while you work,” and we knew when the music started it was time. I have got to hand it to her; she was a pied piper. We never complained about helping her, not once. In fact, I loved to watch her—she was something else then, my mom. A goddess.