I keep a picture of my friend Becky and me on my desk so I can look at it while I'm working. It was taken the spring of 1983 when I visited her in Washington, D.C., where she and her husband were living.
It's a great photo because it recalls that moment in time so perfectly. Both of us are rocking huge haystacks of hair like we're front men for a glam metal band. We're wearing enormous bug-eyed sunglasses, polo shirts with popped collars and high-waisted jeans, the way women did in the spring of 1983. We have our arms wrapped around a lawn jockey, and we are mugging like mad for the camera.
Seriously, Becky and I had so much fun that week. We ate steamed crabs at a crab house in Annapolis, Md., sitting at picnic tables covered with butcher paper where we cracked shells with wooden mallets and dipped meat into melted butter. We visited the Smithsonian and looked at insects encased in glass like sinister jewels. We went to a mall where we tried on ugly prom dresses and collapsed with laughter in the dressing room. We drove through neighborhoods, belting out "She Blinded Me With Science" along with Thomas Dolby on the radio. We sat on her living room couch, eating sour cream raisin pie and talking, talking, talking until the stars came out.