Tuesday, June 29, 2010

whoops I've done it again....

Well, I thought I was the drama free type, but evidently I cannot seem to get enough of it.And I do not mean the kind like in "Little Children" or "An Education", where my world is rocked by lust and confusion. I mean the kind like in "Extreme Measures" or "Lakeview Terrace" where I evoke the wrath of a psychopath and quiver in my strappy wedges for a few weeks until it blows over.

It all started when my car got smashed by a DWP truck on the first day of Summer break. If you read my post about Summer break, it was not exactly idyllic, so, in choosing a body shop for my car, I went with convenience and proximity to a rental car place over reputation. I dropped it off, with the kids and travel car seats in tow, at, let's call it Larry's so I can live long enough to see my 41st birthday. A lovely helpful man, with a name right out of a beloved children's book, checked me in,took all the info-my name, address, phone etc.- and told me they would call me when they determined the extent of the damage. I signed the repair contract and left. I walk to the rental place after a quick lunch with the kids,only to discover that they specialize in luxury vehicles. The man offers me a Hummer or a convertible. I need a Corolla,and they are fresh out. The other rental place that used to be across the street is now a lattice covered boutique. I call Enterprise and they, too, are out of vehicles, on a Wednesday of all days. I am furious.My plan was perfect and now I am stuck on La Cienega in the heat of the day with one sleeping kid and one complaining kid.I call a cab. The cab takes us to the only rental place I can think of that I know has Corollas.Inside ten minutes we are driving home. Voila.

Ten days go by, and after the perfunctory calls to and from the insurance company that somehow take up entire mornings where I could be exercising or writing, and I get a call, while driving the Corolla, that my car is going to considered a total loss. I pull over.I am speechless. It had a rear trunk window that was smashed and a big dent in the rear wheel well, but I drove it for a week afterward without incident. The agent assures me that I will get a fair price for the vehicle, and I choose to believe her. She instructs me to go to Larry's and release the vehicle in person so the insurance company can pick it up. I hang up, resume driving and, within seconds,I am hit from behind by a woman while I am sitting at a red light. It was really just a  big tap,  and there is a teeny amount of damage to my bumper. I get her info and drive away, fantasizing about all the extra calls I'll get to make to insurance companies that aren't mine. Yippeeee....

I went into Larry's the next day and removed the remaining items from the vehicle-car seats,miscellaneous kid flotsam, cd's etc. I noticed that they had stripped the covering off the entire interior all the way down to the wiring, even the sun flaps had been removed. I asked why they needed to do that and the guy said that the whole system needs to be checked to determine its repair status. My car,he said, would be "unsafe to fix", so they intentionally returned with a high estimate to make it a cost prohibitive option. Safe, safety- a ubiquitous word these days.I always step back a little when people throw out the  "S" word.Always smacks of manipulation. I kept think about all the pictures on their website with totaled looking cars-much worse than mine- that were returned to their pre-accident condition through the miracles of their body work .Perhaps it had to do with the value of the car,which is almost nine years old. I said goodbye to the excellent ride that drove both of my kids home from the hospital, got me to my wedding location, never let me down, and was really the first nice car I had ever owned. I took a last look at its stripped interior and felt a little pang of sadness. Maybe it was the two thousand dollar head gasket job we had just paid for that set me off, but I felt a little bummed out.

The insurance company called me on Monday and informed me that the body shop would not release the car to their tow truck driver because of an outstanding bill. Evidently a sizeable check had been mailed, and cashed, and yet they wanted more. The agent told me that their hourly fees were beyond exorbitant and that they had logged in fifteen hours of labor(which included six hours of glass cleanup) to tear down and rebuild the rear of the car. I was furious. I revisit the web and, to my horror, realize that, in my haste to get this done quickly and easily with two kids in tow, I had somehow missed the numerous negative reviews of Larry's. I don't mean the "average" or "didn't really wow me" reviews. I mean the " STAY AWAY!!!!!" " BEWARE!!" " these people are con artists" " do not do what I did" " they had my car for a year" "it took months to get my car back" " SCAM ALERT!!" type of reviews, with lots of exclamation points and capital letters. There were also some good ones, but all five stars were lit up like a Christmas tree and the posts read like a  Michael Medved movie review - "This place is amazing! Unbelievable customer service!" " Larry's is the best place in town". Yeah, Larry's mother must have written some of them because the experience they described doesn't exist. Fixing your car isn't FUN, so I simply don't believe any of the good reviews Larry's got because they lack the specificity of the negative ones. The people who don't like Larry's HATE Larry's and everything about it. The people who claim to LOVE Larry's must be friends and family,that is all I am saying.

I realize that my attempt at expedience has gotten me into a whole other predicament.The claim is probably being held up because the insurance company is spending their time trying to get the car back, which isn't happening until Larry's gets their money. Not my problem, but I am paying for the rental car, and it isn't free.

I decide to post my own online review after finding from other reviewers that insurance "issues" are common for Larry's,as are "total loss" vehicles that only had a minor fender bender or grazed a curb. My review details the beginning of my journey with them and highlights the high pricing and the extra charges, and the fact that they cashed the check when they weren't supposed to. I did use the word asshole once, in a dismissive way ("hope these assholes aren't ripping me off"), in the spirit of the seven other bad reviews and posted it last night, feeling like it was the responsible thing to do. Maybe the next fool might actually read it, like I inexplicably didn't.

At 11:24am the next day, I get a call from Larry's,which I miss because I am on the phone with the claims department about the delay and how it affects us. I listen to the message from Larry's on speakerphone on the way to a lunch date:

"Hi, this is ________ from Larry's? I just got through reading your review of Larry's on (insert website here) and I really feel that it wasn't necessary or appreciated?.".He sounds A LOT like Tony Soprano and is trying really hard not to sound mad. He goes on the explain why my insurance company is wrong, and why they are charging what they are charging, and how they have been there for years, and how my post is actually slanderous, and that he will take action as he takes this sort of thing "very personal".He ends most of his sentences with a question mark,except "very personal", which he reiterates a few times.For some reason, the question mark thing scares the shit out of me. I actually pull over because the adrenaline rush of realizing that he fucking called me on my phone about the review has left me shaky and cotton mouthed. His tone is more than a little threatening. I am able-while driving,I'll admit- to delete the post from the site. I caved like a Kentucky coal mine. I crumbled like a day old cookie. And I don't like it one bit. However, in my defense, I met this guy briefly.He is enormous and not in a teddy bear way. He is already and angry person. He knows where I live. He is clearly unscrupulous. He is surrounded by many equally unscrupulous large men with lots of tools at their disposal.He strikes me as someone that I don't want to be mad at me. Were I childless and unmarried, I might have posted a follow up that included an  hilarious transcription of his threatening phone call. I also toyed with editing the existing post down to just "I would have posted how I really feel about Larry's but I got a threatening phone call from the owner". He called twice more in the next three hours- once was the secretary and the other was a hostile message telling me that the check in question was not cashed and that he'd be happy to email me a copy of it, but that he will pursue slander charges against me with his attorney. I sent him an email that simply said "stop calling me.the post has been removed.do not contact me again". I hope that is the end of it and that he isn't some lunatic repair shop guy who decides to break down my face, or sabotage my rental car.
I can't believe I am in this bizarre situation. I am reminded of Adrienne Shelly's fate, and I just want this to be over.I want to do the right thing but I can't take the same risks as I used to.I will probably dedicate my life to the salvation of animals because helping people is too damn dangerous.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Summer Break Down

I love summer, despite the blasting sun that scorches my children's virgin cheeks and ages me exponentially. It's all splishy splash in the back yard with gleeful shrieks and Sly and the Family Stone's "Hot Fun in the Summertime" blasting on the IPod. A glass of wine while the barbeque heats up; the cat chasing gnats and mini footballs; the kids drawing with chalk on the driveway and eating whole watermelons in an afternoon. What a lovely time of year- unless you are me with the kids home for Summer Break.
I will not say that I have had a "fun" couple of weeks with kids home. There have been moments of fun,where I can say that I was actively having a good time,but they were so heavily peppered with such un-fun moments that I am a little concerned about what will happen for the entire month of August.Thank God we fly for six hours,followed by two hours of driving, to go to the Jersey Shore and stay with cousins and Grandmoms.Without that to look forward to, I might go mad.
My kids, three and five, are actually really fun,amazingly smart, sweet, well behaved and easy to be around. Yet, somehow, in these last two weeks, they really turned me into mommy carpaccio.Despite all the splishy splash, there was A LOT of whining.I hate whining.It is my Achilles heel, my Kryptonite. In the face of my whining child, I come undone.I become a useless,quivering blob of rage.I become the angriest dog in the world-(if you can't read the caption, it says" The dog who is so angry he cannot move. He cannot eat. He cannot sleep. He can just barely growl. Bound so tightly with tension and anger, he approaches the state of rigor mortis"):

For the last ten days, I've gotten nothing done.Zero. Didn't write, pay a bill,exercise, return a phone call, laundry, grocery shopping-nothing. They never left me alone. The word "Mommy" was literally spoken,yelled or whined about every seven seconds, from seven a.m. to seven p.m. for ten straight days, and we aren't done yet. We still have one glorious weekend to look forward to. There were points where I icily requested that they call me something else, just to change up the torture method.
Obviously, I exaggerate a wee bit. I had my sister babysit for a couple of hours so I could shop for party supplies, and we had some family dinners, and a big birthday party-all of which were lovely events. I still woke up every morning at the crack of dawn and faced the day with two little girls expecting the fucking sun,moon and stars and really wasn't in the mood to deliver any of it. I think they must be getting too much of a good thing at school, and how can I compete? There was A LOT of talking back. There was A LOT of not so gleeful shrieking. And I am sick of summer already. Just the battle alone to get the non life threatening sunscreen applied and a hat on before going into the roasting ten o'clock sun for the day is enough to make me want to retreat to the bedroom and leave them in front of "Das Boot"- totally inappropriate content, I know, but the longest movie I can think of.I miss my time to myself, and it is driving me bonkers.And did I mention the whining? Big is more reasonable and will generally come to my way of thinking but Little, oh, MAN-as stubborn as an OX and will not see it my way for HOURS AND HOURS. She will whine until my ears bleed and then some. Consequently, I did a lot of yelling. I know that yelling accomplishes nothing, but it feels better than hitting something or driving away,which are two other options that float into my head when fully exasperated by a three year old. I turned on the TV way too much because I got tired of yelling,which made me feel guilty, but it was the only way I could get through the next hour without having my own adult style meltdown. I felt very twelve step-one day at a time,but really it was one hour at a time. I hissed, I made idle threats, I did everything that my predecessors did, even though I remember snickering at my poor mother's vain attempts to get us to behave by threatening to send us to the orphanage. The first time she said it, we sat up a little straighter,but quickly realized that it was desperation talking and went on about our business of annoying the shit out of her. I was reminded of my favorite Scorsese movie "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore" when she pulls over and makes her fifth grade son get out of the car. I actually made the same threat while on Santa Monica Boulevard in heavy traffic because Big kept kicking Little and screaming for her to stop singing. Being a child born in this century, however, Big insisited that I take it back as it wasn't very nice to talk that way to a small child. Thanks, nursery school, for all the self confidence- really, thanks a lot. I actually felt badly afterward even though I didn't even pull over or anything. What is a modern parent to do?
Camp begins Monday, and I will literally be dancing a jig as the door closes on my empty house. I will roll, like Demi Moore, in the pile of laundry that I can fold in peace. I will take as much time as I want in the bathroom, grocery shop without chaos, and have coffee with a friend where the discussions do not involve princesses or why Big can't change her name to Tiana.I can't wait to be alone in my own house.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

That was then, This is now....

In my early twenties, I waitressed a lot to support my acting habit. I never chose fine dining establishments that could cover the rent in a weekend,but more the grungy arty diners that dotted the pre-gentrified Silverlake landcape of the late eighties and required several grueling shifts that barely paid the DWP bill. I had read about Millie's,my first Eastside job,in 1990, on what was then the back page of the Weekly,which was a Page Six of sorts for the LA hipster scene.I was intrigued by a photograph of Leif Garrett posing outside the restaurant after an all nighter with his girlfriend,who wore a leopard skin jacket. I remember seeing Millie's in bold print and just knowing that this was quintessential LA cool and not to be missed.
My sister and I drove from our apartment near Hollywood and Western into Silverlake for breakfast early one Sunday morning. Millie's was on Sunset,just east of Maltman.It was a brick storefront with big windows,almost papered into obscurity by band fliers, and a faded dark green awning.It had served Silverlake breakfast since 1926 and had an East Village dive vibe that was irresitible.
There were a few tables outside with big green umbrellas and inside consisted of five or six table crammed into a teeny storefront that was adjacent to a small counter that sat eight people. The counter overlooked the kitchen,which was a huge commercial stove, and kitchy fifties metal advertisement plates adorned the walls.There was a collection of old coffee pots on the wall and a neon clock that read "Millie's-est 1926". The main dining room featured exhibits by local artists and kitchy rare collectible stuff from the 40's. The walls and floors had been repainted so many times that they threatened to encroach on the square footage of the room, and the bathroom was the size of a telephone booth, accessible by passing throught the prep kitchen where a cute prep cook named Emile was forever chopping onions. The place was definitely grungy but didn't feel dirty,exactly,just hip in that unwashed sort of way.
My sister and I sat inside by the window in the main dining room and looked at the menu-which had a blob of raspberry jam on the front, and were promptly greeted by Tamara, a pretty black waitress who literally threw a plate of huge, fluffy warm biscuits on the table."Coffee?" she said, accusingly.We nodded. She laughed and said "first time?".We nodded again. She disappeared and returned with two cups of coffee.Mine had a giant pink lipstick mark on the outside,which I would later come to realize, belonged to my future boss. I discreetly wiped it off with my napkin and turned the cup around.I got the feeling that sending it back was the surest way to reveal our non-hipster status. We ordered the house specialty, the Devil's Mess, and sat in silence as we took in the room. Every other customer was either tattooed, pierced, wearing Doc Martens or had clearly just gotten out of bed. We must have looked totally out of place in our relatively clean clothes that were manufactured within the last five years. They must have thought that Strawberry Shortcake and her twin sister wandered into the wrong part of town.
The proprietress was a large woman named Magenta, who had magenta hair,magenta lipstick( the very same that adorned my coffee cup) and was dressed in an antique house dress with fishnets and witchy poo boots.She had a cackle that could break a window and an attitude to match. Our Devil's Mess arrived, and it was enormous.It makes The Griddle look chintzy by comparison. And it was delicious.We grabbed a business card on the way out, where about forty people stood waiting to take our place. It read "Millie's: where the waitress is queen and the customer is always wrong".I was smitten.
We visited Millie's every weekend for the next two months. We got to know the staff by sight and eventually started working there. My sister worked as a cook and I as a waitress. I slowly transitioned from regular clothes to ripped fifties dresses and granny shoes.I lucked into the Saturday and Sunday breakfast shift,which was the busiest time, and occasional evenings,which were much less hectic. When my sister wasn't working, the cook was Kash, a snarly tattooed thirty something with ghost white skin and jet black hair who often performed with The Cramps and was friends with Pee Wee Herman.He meant well but was tough and forever reminding me of my normalness. Weekends were long,sweaty and difficult for a measly hundred bucks.The idea was that Magenta would cover the counter and dazzle with her personality, and the other waitress(es) would take the tables, inside and out. She should have helped out with the ten tables I had when I was alone, but generally didn't. It became apparent rather quickly that, on most weekends, I would do everything and she would little more than joke with customers and bellow when orders sat too long. To her credit, she would give me all of the tips at the end of my shift and send me on my way, still seething at the injustice of it all.She also had her priorities straight when it came to certain issues.The restaurant was across the street from a free clinic.On many weekends, Right to Life protesters would march around in a circle in front of the clinic holding hideous signs of aborted fetuses and yelling awful things at the women who needed to get inside the clinic. I recall a few of them coming across the street with their signs to get a drink or use the bathroom or something, and Magenta stormed outside and screamed at them to get the fuck away from her place of business. Unfortunately, the signs they carried were a Devil's Mess in their own right,and extremely evocative of certain menu items. I am certain the connection was not lost on her. Plus, she was not about to encourage them in any way shape or form.
She was brutal but fair in a weird sort of way. Working with her was tough, but it did help my waitress persona. In the beginning, I was used to being nice to customers because I had come from a catering background, so my good natured smile was often met with active disappointment.After a few weeks of working with the Pink One, I became squinty and pissy like the rest of the waitstaff. We were supposed to be bitchy and give customers a hard time,it was part of the show and nice girls clearly didn't get the response that the mean girls got.When people asked for coffee, we could yell "NO!" and not come back for ten minutes if we wanted to.If someone got a liptick stained cup and complained, we could say sarcastically"what? not your shade?".We still had to get them a new cup, but there was no apology, ever.The food had to be served hot, but we didn't have to kiss anyone's ass. This backfired on amazingly few occasions.The only one I can recall was when two fortyish guys with receding ponytails asked us to turn the music down one slow weekday lunch, and I'd said, without even thinking,"Uh,oh, the geriatrics on the end want the volume turned down" to the cook. They stared at me for a beat and turned to each other and abruptly got up to leave, muttering something about not having to take shit from us. I was kidding, of course, but I was twenty and they weren't,so I can imagine the sting of my remark if it were unexpected.Every once in awhile I had a sassy comeback that would make everyone laugh, but for the most part, when it was busy, I was all business. The problem was, that I actually wanted to do a good job,because that meant more customers and more tips and a generally positive feeling when I left my shift at three pm reeking of the curried potatoes that came with everything. There were other employees who slacked off and chatted too long while dirty tables sat empty and the line outside grew impatient. There was a pretty Latina chick with a boyfriend who lived in Las Vegas, who was a challenge to work with. While I felt like I was often doing seven things at once, she was great with customers and always seemed to be chatting or flirting with some guy until I gave her my best stink eye. She would casually look around at the total chaos of the room and watch me refilling coffee for her tables and clearing dishes long after the tables had gone. She would sashay over and say-part reasurringly and part threateningly- "Don't worry about it,girlfriend, it's cool...". I didn't mind doing the work but,unlike Magenta, she would split the tips with me after not necessarily doing half of the work.
While I was there I came to realize that most of our clientele were relatively successful artists, musicians, actors,writers. I mean, Leif Garrett drew me there for some inexplicable reason, but the place attracted all sorts of groovy, talented and interesting people. I didn't recognize most of them, but they were there because Millie's was just that kind of place.
One evening, during a very slow shift,two guys were sitting inside and waiting to order. They had already asked for drinks. I was in the prep kitchen cutting a fucking lemon because the fucking lunch crew never prepped the fucking lemons because,as usual ,we were out of lemons when the shift ended. I heard one of them say "excuse me?" or something about wanting to order food. I walked out of the kitchen, knife in hand, and stabbed it into the table where they were sitting,pulled out my order pad and said casually, "What can I get for you?". Evidently, they loved it because a few days later the cook told me that Henry Rollins was one of the guys at that table and that he wanted to go on a date with me. I knew who he was, and figured that,had I been single, we would have lasted about twenty minutes on a date. I imagined us going to Art's Bar,which made Millie's look like the Polo Lounge, and him excusing himself and backing slowly away after I mentioned that I'd gone to a horsey prep school and couldn't name one Black Flag song. My edgy waitress in a torn antique dress was a bit of a facade for work. Little did any of the Millie's crew know that I was auditioning for Aaron Spelling shows in my spare time and hoping to book that Pizza Hut national commercial. They were cool. I was not.
I also had the pleasure of meeting Phil Ramie during my stint at Millie's, the notorious papparazzi who hung out of the helicopter at Madonna's wedding.He was a repulsive asshole who bragged about his penchant for "real redheads", and since I happened to be one, I was even more repulsed by him. He was the guy that photographed Rock Hudson's dead body after everyone agreed not to. I saw him on Entertainment Tonight sneaking behind the cop guarding the door of the ambulance to get his shot. I watched it and wished I had poisoned him with a rancid Hangtown Fry (oyster and bacon omlette)when I had the chance.
I lasted at Millie's for about a year and realized one day that I was deeply involved with a very dysfunctional family that I wasn't really part of in the end. I had begun socializing with Magenta and her clan and found out quickly that,while Magenta was a true mother hen, she reserved the right to treat us like her minions if she felt like it, and we were supposed to just deal. Everyone had some sort of wicked vice. It was a band of not so merry misfits and I began to feel,well, a little too normal for that scene. I don't recall the cirumstances of my switching to an entirely different LA institution,but I began to work at Netty's the summer after I left Millie's, which was a cute Cuban diner up Silverlake Boulevard. It was described in a review as "part angry, part creative, part emotional, part hysterical", which is perfection. It,too, was tiny,had delicious food and was also run by misfits of a sort.No vices, just marital discord that comes from working together all of the time. Often the husband and wife team would argue in the kitchen while I was present and it was a little awkward to interrupt a heated discussion to ask if there were anymore espresso brownies. I did the weekend shift there as well and worked my ass off to peppy cuban rhythms.A lot of the same customers came in if Millie's wasn't their thing that day and the Beastie Boys had a recording studio up the road and would come in for lunch at least three times a week. They annoyed the shit out of me because they would order five iced lattes at once,which- if you are a waitress in a restaurant with one milk steamer and a full house- really screws things up.They also tipped incredibly well and were always polite. The only song I knew was "you gotta fight for your right to party",which I never really loved, so they were just more customers to me.
I left Netty's after I actually started getting work in Hollywood. I broke up with my then boyfriend,an artist I'd met at Millie's who'd come to consider me his personal bank account. I was living alone and going on location a lot, discovering that Hollywood wasn't nearly as friendly as the misfit world I'd just left behind. I didn't do well living alone at all and spent a lot of time getting high and staring out the window of my teeny apartment perched atop Echo Park Boulevard.
One afternoon, out of the blue,I got a call from my ex and was told to come down the hill to his studio.I assumed he wanted to borrow more money, but when I arrived, he apprised me of two things: our cat,Ted, who had stayed with him after the split,had been hit by a car and was dead.We cried a little and hugged.Then he stopped and went to put on a CD.He was convinced that The Beastie Boys had written a song about me. He played me the song. It did seem to be about me,sort of, but it made no sense. We never spoke beyond, "So, five iced lattes?" and "That'll be seventy three twenty" but after listening to the lyrics, there were enough specifics that, to this day, I am ninety percent sure that I was possibly the subject for a very strange song.I could also be wrong, and it could be a bizarre coincidence. Obviously, it is some sort of take on "Georgie Girl" by The Seekers, so I don't know exactly what the deal is, but I have included notes where the specifics are undeniable.

The song is called Netty's Girl:

The Beastie Boys - Netty's Girl

Andrea | MySpace Video

Lyrics to Netty's Girl:
Okay good evening everybody
Everybody agh ready
Did you go pass the leader on the cassette there
Ohh, it's rollin', Okay very good very good
Alright everybody take one...
1 2 3 4...

Hey there everybody
I'd like to tell everybody out there
A little story about, la someone that was very special to me
And this is a special song about that special someone
About just how special things can be you know
I'm sure everybody out there has gone
Agh, felt, felt something very similar to that
And it can uhh, it can be the best thing
It can be the worst thing
It can make you feel great or..

There Georgie Girl
Oh Georgie girl
Oh hey there Georgie girl yea..
You can kiss that old crumb crack guy goodbye
(he was a little crum crack)
Because you know agh yea baby you know
You're on the one, the funky one
Oh baby, yea
Yo you know, I saw you that day you...
How's your Girl Mike?
Agh she's pretty nice man but I tell you yo
I saw the other Girl at Netty's the other day
(was waiting on them weekly)
And she had her shit together
(was kind of businesslike)
I'm talkin bout hip hop pow
(wore miracle bra daily)
Boomin' system up top in the back
(had some extra junk in the trunk)

Agh hey there Georgie Girl
Georgie Girl
Agh baby you look so nice
You on the one
You got your shit together Georgie Girl
Yea you're looking so nice Georgie Girl
Georgie Girl you know you're on the one
Oh hey lonely Girl
(were they really that perceptive?)
Yea that's right baby that was you the first time
You know i saw you all alone
I was on the boardwalk you know
(went to Sunset Junction street fair that summer)
You know you were looking lovely
A little bit lonely and uh
You know you was squirting the wate in the clowns mouth and everything ((won prize at street fair shooting water into clown's mouth)

But hey baby you know I would win the whole prize for you
The whole nine yards, the, the ski ball tickets
Everything baby, for you

Twenty one years later, Millie's is still there, though Magenta lost it to the IRS a few years after I left and it was repurchased by a previous owner.I haven't gone in since I left,and the antique dresses finally went to Goodwill sometime in 1994. Netty's became Reservoir a year or so ago and Silverlake is now dotted with upscale boutiques,charter schools, gelato stores, microbreweries and snooty coffee shops.
Everything must go, I get it, but I still miss that time. I wouldn't say I was deliriously happy, necessarily.Just young, I guess,really really young.