"Watching The Submarine Races"

It is, by far, THE sweetest of all aspects of dating.

Parking.

Known by euphemisms such as, "Watching The Submarine Races," or "Waiting For Trains," parking is a universal source of joy and pleasure to young boys and girls, and an equally powerful reason for angst and worry in parents.

Parking is such a monumental aspect of dating, that later in life we can still remember the people, the places, the songs that played on the 8-track, and those electric moments in the dark when passion ruled, "by the dashboard lights."

For a guy, the dilemma that comes early in a relationship is, "How do you ask, assuming that you DO have to ask, if a girl wants to go parking?" Does a young man just assume that she also wants to? (It IS assumed that he does!) Or, does he assume, that she just assumes, that "it" is going to happen - after the movie and the hamburger joint?

This young man nervously debated this point in his head during many a movie. The dilemma lay somewhere between, "Do I act like a gentleman and ask her - risking that she will think I am some kind of wuss?", or, "Do I just let the animal inside me rule and simply, without announcement, head straight for the cemetery after we eat?" The fear was that the former would produce ridicule, and the latter would produce a cold slap-in-the-face.

Neither was good for a young stud's burgeoning ego.

Though the world was changing in the late 60's and early 70's, it was still a tough environment for a girl. Especially a "good" girl. Did she give in to the carnal enjoyment of kissing and "petting," or did she practice self-denial and, as a result, spend scads of time at home with her parents on Saturday night?

Many of the girls this writer knew and went out with knew precisely where to draw the parking and petting line. If the action got a little too frisky, they would suggest getting out of the car for a short walk. This was an effective as a momentary, "cold shower," but did not fully dissuade her young male partner once they were back in the car.

Other girls were obviously of the persuasion, "What took you so long?," once they finally got to that darkened place of bliss. These were usually the girls with a full dance card on the weekends.

Effective parking demands that a handful of variables be present.

Once a mutual desire is confirmed, the first hurdle involves finding just the right place.

The absolute, hands-down, best option for parking is a cemetery. Preferably, a country cemetery. All the elements are present. Dark. Quiet. And, most of all, privacy. Cemeteries are filled with dead folks. And, everybody knows that dead folks don't disturb anybody.

Girls, however, generally do not like cemeteries. This could be because of all the horror movies they've seen. Or, that cemeteries seem rather sacred and separated from the world's obsessions.

But, with all due respect to the dead, cemeteries can easily come alive - in the front or back seat of a '72 Nova - on a Saturday night.

Church parking lots are also excellent venues for parking. Few public facilities are less frequented, more private, and provide more darkened parking lot space - unless, of course, some smart-aleck group of church deacons has positioned street lights throughout the property. Parents, nor the police, think to look first in a church parking lot for a young couple discovering youthful joys. The only roadblocks in this setting were the occasional Saturday night visit to the building by a church custodian, or the holding of a weekend, all-night singing or prayer service.

Too, if you were out with a girl who had an overly-sensitive conscience, or was, herself, super involved in her own church youth group, this "holy ground" arena for parking might not be the best choice. The greatest concern seemed to be that Jesus would come back at that moment and, "catch us."

She may have been right.

Many other places could, if necessary, fill the bill on a lustful Saturday night. School parking lots, dead-end country roads, subdivisions under construction, and pasture land (particularly if there was a lake, pond, or old barn nearby). The sound of crickets, for some reason, were quite the aphrodisiac for some young females.

Another variable is the music.

Got to have the right music.

Ted Nugent, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath were great for cruising. But, NOT for the romantic mood needed while in the back corner of a darkened Methodist church parking lot. Groups like Bread, The Carpenters, The Commodores, Elton John, and Neil Diamond were the ticket.

Experienced parkers know that girls L-O-V-E love songs. They are much more prone to hug and kiss and cuddle during slow, sentimental tunes. So, on a hot night in the old church cemetery, the trusty 8-track was busy cranking out, "I Honestly Love You," "The Way We Were," or "You Light Up My Life."

It is still hard to believe that this rock and roll guitar player spent good money on such repulsive, musical drivel. But, alas, this was the female viagra of the day.

Though they are made fun of by some in modern times, 8-track tape players were great companions in the land of watching submarine races. Though they did not offer the convenience of a perfect song selection - like the burned CD's and iPod's of today - they did provide an unending loop of music which continued as long as passion called for it. If a tune inappropriate for the atmosphere of the moment did happen to cycle through, an experienced parker could easily, without missing a beat, bump the player to the next track using his free hand.

It was a small price to pay!

On those nights when you had already gone through the tape case, exhausting all the mood music you had brought along, the radio was not always a good alternative to the 8-track. Especially if the parking exchange seemed to be going well. This was a lesson well-learned on one particular evening with a young blonde who was undeniably starved for some male, lip-time.

Trust me - she was!

The case full of sappy 8-tracks had already been through a fourth lap of repetition in the tape player. Yet, this girl was not yet ready to be taken home.

Trust me - she wasn't!

And so, rather than listen a fifth time to Barry Manilow, The Chi-Lites, or "Please Come To Boston," this genius fired up the car's radio. Great timing, too. The station had just begun a commercial free block of slow-dance numbers. Rod Stewart's, "Tonight's The Night," and The Eagles, "Take It To The Limit," were the first two cuts in the block.

Great choice, old boy.

Things were going along fine until the commercial-free block ended. When it did, the first sound that came blaring out of the speakers was a human voice, addressing the, "pain and itching of hemorrhoids."

Good old Preparation-H!

I thought the girl would never stop laughing.

While darkness and music were vital to a passionate evening of carnal exploration, these were not the most important of all ingredients.

That would be - the smells.

Fragrance is a powerful thing. Some smells drive a girl crazy, while others only drive them away.

A young man hoping for a thunder and lightning exchange on his front seat should never make the following mistakes:

Old Spice and Taco Bell.

While advertisers make great claims about their fragrances (remember, "Hai Karate"?), seldom does Old Spice bring out the beast in a girl. Rather, it reminds them of their dearly departed grandfather.

One male cologne ad made this tantalizing boast: "All my men wear English Leather, or they wear nothing at all!"

As a result, how many cases of that stuff did we buy?

Too, the girl should remember that perfume can do crazy things to a man/boy. No young, male suitor wants to be in the middle of a passionate kiss - able to breath, for the moment, through nothing but his nostrils -  only to be bludgeoned with a strong whiff of White Rain Hair Spray or Merle Norman Astringent.

Instead, know that he will come alive with even greater passion whenever the sweetness of, "White Shoulders," or "Love's Baby Soft," wafts through the air.

Lay it on thick, ladies.

The other smell to avoid is the residual revenge from a Taco Bell Double Re-Fried Bean Burrito. Gastric misbehavior from eating the wrong foods can absolutely wreck a romantic evening behind the old steering wheel. Other than male B.O., it is the one thing that should be avoided like the plague.

Young men - beware.

Flatulence is not funny to most girls. Nor does it increase the chances of you getting your fun-meter pegged. Regardless of how amusing this practice might be to one's male friends, girls are not tickled by, nor are they drawn to, a guy who won't control his bowels. Nor will she be amused by the offering of such classic excuses as, "More room outside than inside," regardless of whose grandmother used to say it.

And, no amount of Fabreze (which we did not have back in the day) can atone for the tasteless, ill-mannered practices of failing to bathe properly, and/or rampant attacks of digestive track relief.

Instead, young fellows, bathe, shower, and dry behind your ears. Use deodorant and cologne. Fill your car with the smells of fragrant incense, spices, and other pleasantries. Don't eat Mexican or fiber, or anything else that Mr. Colon cannot quietly and inwardly process. And by all means, hold it in until you have walked her to the door.

Remember, her ancestral line leads back to Eve and the Garden of Eden. She will respond accordingly if you go the second mile to make the atmosphere a haven of sweetness, and your  potentially odorous body a model of cleanliness, hygiene, and proper dietary preparation.

Trust me - she will!

Ah, the power of young love...

In a car...

On a moonlit evening...

With soft music playing in the background...

And, two people making memories that will one day come to life again...

As they turn fondly back through scrapbook pages from the past.

In the words of a song by the group, Widespread Panic...

"Ain't life grand?"

"Bench Seats, Curb Feelers, and Fuzzy Dice"

Americans have long been a people defined by four tires and a steering wheel. Cars are more than a mode of "transport" in America. They are a statement, and an extension, of who we are. This is especially true during the days of one's youth - and particularly so for young men.

In modern times, with the existence of hybrids, crossovers, electric cars, and names like, "Volt" and "Prius," the politically correct and, so-called, environmentally conscious pride themselves on being transportation minimalists.  One tiny semblance of an automobile in the early 21st Century resembles little more than a, "pimple on wheels." (Side note: If these folks were as genuinely concerned with the environment as they pretend, their idiocy would surely lead them to the age-old "rickshaw" as the truest form of "green" transportation.)

Conversely, in the 1970's, your "ride" was everything.

The very sound of classic muscle machines like a Pontiac GTO (called a "Goat" on the street), or a Chevelle SS 396, or a Dodge Charger/ Roadrunner /Hemi, or a Chevrolet "Vette" was enough to send one's pulse racing. The blast of a pair of, "cherry bomb," or, "glass pack," mufflers could be heard from several blocks away. And, four speed, manual transmissions were the preferred form of shifting from gear to gear. Few ever, "burned rubber," while driving an automatic transmission - not that it couldn't be done, but seldom did it carry the same classiness as someone, "popping a clutch."  

When young men finally get their first car, it is a rite of passage. No longer are they forced to bum rides from parents, siblings, or friends. A young man with a car all his own is able to conjure up the courage to ask out girls he formerly avoided. With a sporty set of wheels, he can chauffeur them around town in style.

With his first car, a young buck can go parking with his favorite filly of the week and not be afraid that someone will spot him driving his parents' hearse-like, boat, tank or "bomb" into a darkened cemetery. No sidelines cheer has ever included, "Hey look, there goes so & so...Isn't he cool?...Driving his mother's new Ford Fairlane!"

With a hot set of wheels, a young man is forever able to forge an "identity" - a much cooler way to state his individuality than a face full of piercings or a Facebook page.

Much like a young man's first romantic "conquest" - the memory of his first car never fades. With the passing of a lifetime, he retains vivid memories of the day he bought it, and the day he got rid of it. Respectively, these two events are permanently engraved in his heart and mind, and are found on his monumental list of life's events under the categories of, "Greatest Accomplishments," & "Greatest Regrets."

It was the week between Christmas and New Year's Day in 1972. He was a senior in high school.

He had worked at odd jobs, summer jobs, night jobs, and any other kind of job since he was ten years old. His mother had forced him to bring his paychecks home. He endured the strictest, maternal-driven, money rationing known to man - especially when the withdrawal of cash from the, "First National Bank of Mama," (FNBOM) was for dates or other forms of entertainment. Instead of a smiling teller at the window, at the FNBOM there was only a stingy, miserly-like, accountant, who not only doled out minuscule amounts cash in a begrudging fashion, but was also quick with a stern lecture about the foolishness of throwing money away on girls, movies, concerts, and other frivolous things.

Though many arguments ensued during this period of his life, the head teller at the FNBOM regularly assured him that one day he would be glad.

How right she was!

He spent the first year-and-a-half of his days as a licensed driver tooling around in his mother's seafoam green 1969 Chevrolet Impala. To him, it was like driving a big, green moose. But, his mother eventually solved this problem for him.

When he wrecked this same '69 Impala in 1971, coming home from a trip to the neighborhood grocery store, his mother decided that she no longer wanted a seafoam green moose. Long before the wreck, she had begun to fixate on driving something in a royal blue color. The make and model did not matter. It just had to be a striking, royal blue.

And so, while the Impala was in the body shop, she instructed the car's exterior to be changed to the color of her dreams. Her husband tried to talk her out of it. Her kids tried to talk her out of it. And, even the body shop man tried to talk her out of it. The reason - the car's interior was the same seafoam green as the original exterior. Everyone but her could foresee that royal blue and seafoam green would not mix.

But, when a woman's mind is made up...

The day the family drove home in that loud, now-royal blue, Impala with the seafoam green interior, the mother of this highly-embarrassed brood was in color-clash heaven. The kids stayed scrunched down in the seats and floorboards, hoping that no one in the neighborhood would recognize them.  And, the husband/father followed at a distance in HIS seafoam green Chevy pick-up. Never would he make the same royal blue mistake.

After eighteen months of suffering the untold humiliation of driving his mother's royal blue moose around the streets of Atlanta, his parents finally gave in.

For untold weekends thereafter, his family journeyed with him. Like gypsies on a pilgrimage, they showed up and played the car-buying game at most every car lot in north Georgia.

They found nothing.

He looked at GTO's, Z-28 Camaros, and even a Corvette or two. Still, nothing seemed to fit both his taste and his pocketbook. His parents had already explained the facts of life to him - he was going to have to settle for a good, used car. In today's car market, such would be referred to as a, "Certified, Pre-Owned, Vehicle."

Finally, on a cold, windy December afternoon, he and his family braved the shivering temperatures to walk yet another car lot - this time, clear down on the other side of Atlanta. In Chevy Chase's classic movie, "Christmas Vacation," when Clark Griswald and his family finally found the perfect Christmas tree, a light suddenly cascaded down from heaven, and a choir began to sing. There were no heavenly lights or choirs on that frigid car lot in southeast Atlanta, but there was the "perfect" car - at least for him. His long, painful search was finally, and mercifully, over.

This young man's first car would be a 1972 Chevrolet Nova.

It was a one-owner. A professor from the University of Georgia had purchased it new, drove it for about 18,000 miles, and then decided he needed something bigger. It glistened like a shiny new penny with its copper gold paint job. The black vinyl roof was in perfect condition. It had a powerful 350 cubic inch V-8 engine under the hood, with two thin pinstripes down each side of the upper contour of the body. An understated sportiness which, again, was perfect!

The price was also ideal. The money his mother had held hostage for the previous seven years would be sufficient for almost all of the purchase price. With his father's savvy help in negotiating, coupled with this being the week between Christmas & New Year's (THE slowest week of the year for car sales), this young car buyer paid $2,500 cash for his new ride.

Such a memorable experience was this that, now forty years later, this writer can even remember the salesman. He was s short, dumpy white fellow with a huge, frizzy Afro haircut. His name was, "Buzzy Johnson."

For the next six years, this '72 Chevy Nova and its young driver were inseparable. They enjoyed the company of many delightful, young lady passengers. Most really dug the comfortable front bench seat, the red fuzzy dice that hung from the rear-view mirror, and the Craig 8-track tape player.

That incomparable automobile took its young owner everywhere and back. All over Atlanta, trips to Alabama and Florida, and even a few street races here and there. She knew the way to every drive-in theater, every fast-food restaurant and pizza joint, and every concert hall in metro Atlanta. No GPS was needed.

She was with him when he found his first love, and also on the painful Sunday afternoon when that first love ended. She was there for every gig - as he made his mark as a rock guitarist on the Atlanta music scene. She was there when he went parking for the first time. She faithfully and reliably accompanied him on his first trip to see the Atlantic Ocean when he graduated high school.

And, when he sat in on his first professional recording session as studio musician, she waited dutifully for him in the parking lot.

Finally, in the summer of 1978, she waved goodbye to him for the last time. It was the day he traded her in on a brand new hot-rod Z-28 Camaro. He drove away with his new four-wheel mistress for a far-away land called Memphis.

But, as he watched that old '72 Nova disappear from the rear-view mirrors on his snazzy new ride, a big lump formed in his throat. Priceless memories had just been left behind. On a car lot - just like the one on that cold, December afternoon in 1972.

There would never be another like her. And, to this very day, there hasn't been.

Cars. They are really just machines. Tools. Possessions. Material things that depreciate with time.

Or, are they?

"Sherry With The Cat-Eye Glasses"

Why is it that we sometimes live within arms reach of treasures, yet constantly overlook them, as though we were stumbling and blundering through life like an old, blind mule?

She lived right across the street. Her name was Sherry. Her brother's name was Vaughn. For some reason, a certain, "Old Blind Mule," (OBM) from across the street was more attracted, strictly as a buddy and friend, to the latter of these two siblings.

Until, that is, one fateful night.

Sherry was a petite girl. Her brunette hair was shoulder length. Her skin was like porcelain. Her dimples were well-defined. Her ever-developing body was perfect. And, she was a kind, sweet person.

Just the kind of girl that would make a great wife.

What WERE we thinking?

The one thing that probably caused the OBM from across the street to overlook Sherry was her glasses. Until late in the 1960's, folks did not wear contact lenses. Instead, lots of school pictures from the 1940's, 50's and early 60's reveal a phenomenon that probably impeded population growth during that era.

Namely, cat-eye glasses.

It is the understatement of the twenty-first century that cat-eye glasses were not considered attractive or sexy. Recall the female love interest of Sylvester Stallone in the "Rocky" movies. Talia Shire's character, "Adrienne," began the series wearing cat-eye glasses. Just like Rocky did with Adrienne, whenever a guy wanted to kiss a girl who was wearing cat-eye glasses, he would first remove them from her face. Those hideous frames not only got in the way of a passionate lip-lock, but they also made the one wearing them look like something out of a freak show at the fair.

Young males are not known for discernment or foresight. Their appreciation of the opposite sex is exclusively carnal - driven by testosterone. The movie, "Shallow Hal," illustrates this truth. When a young male inspects a young female, if cat-eye glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, the survey of her other features comes to a screeching halt.

This is where the, "Old Blind Mule," part comes in.

Sherry was, for several years, within easy striking distance of the OBM from across the street. Looking back, she probably made several romantic overtures during that time that were summarily ignored. The brainless, OBM saw her brother Vaughn as the cooler of the two. In fact, Vaughn was esteemed as the coolest person in the neighborhood. He could make unintelligible, but extremely entertaining, noises with his mouth and tongue.

During one neighborhood party, at the house of the OBM from across the street, all of this changed. Forever.

Parties for young teens were little more than a front for chaperoned make-out sessions. These fleshly encounters were camouflaged as, "games." Party invitations often read, "we will play some games." Translated, this meant, "we WILL swap some spit."

Party games almost always included the infamous, "Spin the Bottle." However, with the passing of generations, amorous young party-goers had grown weary of this tired old format. So, new games were born. Games with a little more meat, and passion. One such game was suggested on this memorable night. It was dubbed, "Five Minutes In Heaven."

A hybrid of, "Spin The Bottle," this new adventure could have just as well been called, "Let's Go Find A Dark Place And Kiss While We See What My Hands Can Find On Your Curvaceous Body." Or, as my neighborhood pal from those days, Scott Thompson, would have said it, "Let's go GIT them titties!"

The guests that night were seated in a circle on one of the bedroom floors. There were several neighborhood boys, including Vaughn and the party's host - the OBM from across the street. The girls included Sherry and another girl named Debbie Stanley, who happened to be visiting a cousin that lived on our street.

Debbie Stanley had long blond hair, and was built like a No. 2 pencil. How this skinny girl could have ever been seen as, "attractive," is a mystery. But, attractive she must have been.

When his turn at, "Five Minutes In Heaven," finally came, the OBM from across the street silently prayed that the bottle would land on Debbie Stanley. Unnervingly, the first two spins of the bottle landed on other boys in the group. The bottle was hurriedly spun again. No neighborhood boy was going anywhere into a dark place with another neighborhood boy! Not even if it was Vaughn.

Giving that old, green-tinted glass, Coca-Cola bottle yet another spin, the OBM from across the street watched nervously as it whirled around on that old linoleum floor. Closing his eyes, he listened intently as the spinning bottle slowed to a stop.

When the OBM from across the street opened his eyes, to his great dismay the mouth of that Coke bottle had gone right past Debbie the No. 2 pencil, and had landed squarely on none other than Sherry with the cat-eye glasses.

He was sick. Staring sadly at those homely glasses, he swallowed hard and slowly rose from his cross-legged position on the floor. Extending his hand to help Sherry to her feet, he led her into the adjoining bedroom. She was smiling like a mule eating briars. As the door closed behind them, he thought to himself, "at least the light will be off and I won't have to see those ugly glasses."

As he turned off the light and reached for Sherry, she asked him to turn the light back on for just a second. Thinking he might have hit the jackpot, and that she might be stalling for a re-spin of the bottle, and that Debbie Stanley was still a possibility - the OBM from across the street quickly obliged.

Once the light was back on, a life-changing event occurred in that little bedroom.

Sherry had already taken off her cat-eye glasses. She looked around for a table to place them on. As she laid the glasses down, she turned and smiled brightly at her across-the-street neighbor. What he saw took his breath away.

Sherry, without her cat-eye glasses, was stone-cold gorgeous. She was a perfect "10." Her beautiful face was even better than her tight little body. How could he have been so blind?

It was one of the most defining moments of his young life.

As he turned off the light and pulled Sherry close, this young man began absorbing two powerful life lessons. Lessons that he has never forgotten.

As he slid his arms around Sherry's sensuous body and closed his eyes to kiss her, he vowed never again to judge a person's looks by their cat-eye glasses.

And, as their lips met, and he felt Sherry's luscious tongue slide gently into his mouth, this newly-enlightened, and former, "Old Blind Mule," no longer considered Vaughn to be the coolest person in the neighborhood.