A friend of mine, and frequent reader of this blog, is trying to get me to write a book. We grew up together and she thinks a view of Danville from my perspective would be a big seller. I chuckle as I write that. Anyway, below is the first page.


I moved to California in the summer of 1976. I came from Michigan where I was content to run through the woods with my buddies looking for frogs and snakes and other critters. We'd go fishing down on the Thornapple River in the summertime and snowmobiling in the wintertime. It was easy to be a kid there. California is a different animal. My first day on the playground at Montair School in Danville was shocking to say the least. All the kids were tan and strong and beautiful. I was mangy and pasty and had a fresh bowl cut my mother had given me the day before. I distinctly remember the chaos of that first recess as if it was yesterday. I knew what cuss words were having tried them out a few times back in Michigan. It was one of those things you did back in the woods where you were certain no adult would hear you. The playground in California was entirely a different landscape however. Rob Elliot ruled the four square court. He'd been held back somewhere along the line so he was bigger, tanner and better than all the rest. Later he'd be the envy of every boy in high school when not only did he come through the maturation process with a little extra in the man department (if you know what I mean), but even better, drove a Camaro. The kind that had the really cool space tape dash board. That "John Holmes" and car scored him untold amounts of gasps and dates back in the day. Probably still does. The endowment, not the Camaro. So as Rob eliminated each of his competitors, he'd revel in their dejection as they'd unleash a tremendous display of profanity in his direction. The first time I heard this language used on the playground I was horrified. My head started to spin about as if on a swivel looking for the first adult that would level the kid for displaying such horrific manners. No sooner had the words exited some poor kids mouth did Mr. O'nion, my fifth grade teacher, exit his classroom. I chuckled at the thought of this kid getting whacked on the first day of school. His parents were going to go red with anger. We'd be lucky to see that kid sitting at school the next day if he showed at all. To my shock, Mr. O'nion walked right past the offender on his way to the faculty lounge to do what ever the faculty did in the lounge at recess. And so it went for me. The innocence of my youth was vacated on the playground that day. Kids were faster here, adults didn't care, and I would have to adapt.

Page two will show us a look at hot teenage girls that smoke cigarettes on Danville Blvd. in full view of anyone driving by...

Feel free to editorialize. Careful though, writer has extremely thin skin. Hope you are well.

Johnny GoFast