On this date in history... and the following week

1977.

We're moving to Greece. My parents took teaching jobs at American Community School, in Athens. It's a chance that young people take. Dr. Dorbis, the school Administrator, was quite a persuasive recruiter, and well, my father is Greek. "Sure, we'll go for two years." It wound up being 20. But that's another story.

We land in Brussels. Get in a cab. My dad's the very sociable type - throw him into a roomful of strangers and he'll have 20 friends in 20 minutes. So, what's going on? Elvis died. I swear my Dad said "You're kidding" and "I don't believe it" about 197,625,487 times. Cabbie turns on the radio. Non-stop Elvis. News stations, music stations, every fucking station. Elvis has left the planet.

My dad's a huge Elvis fan. Had a lot of 45s, albums, and reel-to-reel tapes with stuff he got off the radio. I was too, by osmosis. I was only 7, but I was a latchkey kid. I'd get home from school before my parents did, and have an hour to myself (call CPS!!!!). Since I was a young loner nerd, I knew how to operate all the audio equipment (primarily because I got scolded for putting my dad's records on my Fischer Price record player). I would play the Elvis and Beatles 45s and bop around the house, shaking my hips Elvis-style and everything. It was probably hott. Or at least cute.

One of the most resonant memories of my younger years. Get off the first plane ride I remember, get in a cab in a different country, and Elvis is dead. Weird.

The next day, we flew to Amsterdam to pick up our car (which we had shipped over from NYC). I got a mini-cake, and the whole plane sang Happy Birthday. Now that's pretty cool too.

From Amsterdam, we drive to Italy. Stopped off in Germany, to visit relatives in Bonn, so I'm not quite sure how long all of this took. 4 or 5 days, maybe. Get on a ferry from Brindisi to Patras, Greece. First night, my Mom's a little queasy. Probably just a little seasick. Second day, she's a lot queasy. Go to the ship's doctor. Mrs. T, you're pregnant.

Sur-PRISE!

That's a heady fucking week for an 8-year-old, I'll tell you. Leave everything you know behind to move to a whole different country. Elvis is dead. A planeload of people serenading you on your birthday. Drive through Europe. And you're going to be an older brother.

Phew.

Kitchen, continued...

Well, the floor in the kitchen has been done for a couple days, and I'm almost done getting it into the foyer. As great as it looks, and that certainly feeds the motivation, this is getting old.

But we have guests for the weekend, so I need to finish a lot tonight.

This is the normally weekend of my annual Saratoga Racetrack party (Saturday's big race is the Alabama), but not this year. It's just too difficult to cook for, and clean up after, 10-15 people. So just my friends from Boston, Tom and Alicia, and a good friend from Troy, John.

I'm predicting the damage to be: 2-3 cases of beer, 8-12 bottles of wine. That's reasonable for 5 adults, right?

Also, my birfday Friday. A pancake/blowjob breakfast and a round of golf. What else does one need?