I told John today, perhaps for the first time, that as we grew up together over these last five decades (but really in the first two decades), I always envied his natural good looks, his easeful sense of style, and his naturally beautiful dance, his surfer’s sense of rolling on a rhythm. When we were younger, I envied his absolute ease with the female set, something which took me years to feel comfortable with. But he moved so easily in it, and was always surrounded by intelligent, beautiful, somewhat dangerous (to his fragile sanity!) women. Arts-types, needing themselves to be in some drama of their own all the time. And John as their captive audience, his own life a series of its own fully challenging dramatis personae.

It’s nice to see that he still has it. After all these years. He could easily still be George Clooney’s body-double for some scenes, that’s for sure.

And now he is a celebrated poet whose critical eye is much sought-after by colleagues, fellow writers. He is also a beloved instructor in creative writing, who even processes elements of some student’s writing in his dreams, that’s how deeply he dives into these chickies trying to peck out into their expressive freedom.

But he’d still be good with hanging out on the Boardwalk back on the Jersey Shore where we spent so many pointless hours waiting for some plan or pursuit to congeal into view. He could still move there. Doubt very much he’d be interested. But he’d be capable. He’d surf right through it, sonofabitch!

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