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My wife Barbara and I were sitting at the bar of a fine East Side restaurant Saturday evening when a large group of dressed-up high school kids filed in and sat down at two tables nearby. At first I was worried they’d be noisy and raucous, disturbing my dinner. But after a few Finlandias I grew misty-eyed, recalling my own high school days. After another drink, I informed Barbara that I was going over to talk to the kids, and maybe give them some advice. She said, “Uhh ...”

I walked over and placed myself between the kids’ tables. “Hi gang,” I said, raising my glass and grabbing the back of a chair for balance. “Mind if I rap with you a little bit?” I saw surprised looks and heard a few snickers. I wasn’t insulted — after all, who did this old graybeard think he was, horning in on all the Saturday night fun? But there was plenty I wanted to say to these young people.

“Kids, I know you’ve heard this before,” I began. “But as I was sitting at the bar, I thought to myself: You know, over at those tables, that’s our future. And I said to myself, I said, ‘Self, if you don’t do anything else in this life, you gotta do this. You gotta tell these kids one thing.’

“And that one thing is this: Don’t ... let ... go ... of ... your ... dreams.

“I didn’t do anything. No clubs, no debating team, no student newspaper, no varsity nothing. You know what I did? I watched TV. That’s right. That’s what could have been listed under my picture: ‘Watched TV.’ Not that there was cable in those days. You had 3, 5 and 8. NBC, ABC, CBS, that was your choice. On, off, that was it. Volume control ... vertical hold ... Oh, maybe we had a few UHF stations, big deal. Big deal! Don’t interrupt, son, I’m talking here.

“The point is I piddled my time away. Ski club? Drama society? Don’t make me laugh. Prom? I never even smelled the prom. Nixon was president,” I said darkly. “Richard M. Nixon. Watergate. ‘I am not a crook, I am not a crook.’ Who could blame me for retreating from the world and looking for solace where I could find it?” I chuckled sadly, and dabbed at my eye with a tissue.

“Kids, just don’t do what we did. Don’t drink Ripple and Boone’s Farm Apple Wine and smash up Dad’s car ... and for pity’s sake don’t mix gin and vodka in a flask, then chase it with MD 20/20. Jesus God! That stuff tasted like Clorox bleach. I lost my glasses that night. I was on the floor at some party screaming obscenities and woke up wallowing in dried vomit. At first I thought I had slept in corn flakes. Ah, you girls think it’s funny now, but I certainly wasn’t laughing the next day. I was crying like a baby, I had to eat saltines all day long to settle my stomach.” I wiped at my eyes again, spilling a bit of Finlandia on one of the kids.

“Are any of you girls cheerleaders? I didn’t even smell cheerleaders. I talked to them sometimes in class, but not much. No, cheerleaders were a different breed of cat, a different kettle of fish. Not the world of cheerleaders for me. Rah! Rah! School spirit? I didn’t know from school spirit. This was the Watergate era, we found our fun where we could. I know you kids like rock music. I listened to rock music too. ‘Knights in white satin ... doo doo doo doo doo doo ... and I love you, wooooo, I love you, ohhhhhhh, I love you.’ Stereo systems? On, off, volume control, that was it. Treble if you were lucky. You kids have the technology, you have it easy. In the ‘70s computers were as big as cars. We didn’t even smell computers.”

I don’t really remember much more of what I said to the group. It may be that at that point my judgment had become slightly impaired, because I remember following two of the girls to the Ladies Room. I began to talk to them about how smoking aids my digestion but didn’t get a chance to finish because some restaurant functionaries came in and removed me. But I had a wonderful time rapping with the kids.

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