When I was 7 1/2 years old, we moved from a nice house in Wisconsin, a block from the beach, to a gross house in Ill-An-Noise, in back of the grade school. Yuck!
This new world was stupid and boring, but I was determined to make the best of it. The first thing I needed was a boyfriend. Somebody to show me around, introduce me to other kids, point out the places to get necessities (like cookies and comic books), and the places to avoid (with mean dogs, mean boys, crazy ladies, and escaped killers).
He should be a boy, of course, around my age, and preferably both nice and cute.
In August, when school started, there would be a whole roomful of boys choose from, but that was over a month away, an eternity for a 7 1/2 year old! I needed somebody now!
Fortunately, 1968 was the heart of the Baby Boom, the biggest generation in history, and there were kids in nearly every house in every direction. It didn't take long to compile a list of prospects who lived within a couple of blocks:
The Little Kid, the Cereal Boy, the Football Player, the Parakeet Boy, the Old Guy, The Sick Kid, the Angel, the Rock Star, and the Indian..
The full post is on Tales of West Hollywood.