California Guy

Actually, I once did wish I all could be a California guy, and thanks to Blogging Barman for tapping that madeleine memory.

Autumn '64, fresh out of 10 years of private schooling:

Floppy locks

Taut abs

Killer chops on a cutaway Gretsch thanks to close listening to Hank B. Marvin.

What I didn't have was the body of Antoinette Whitcomb.

That belonged to granite-jawed, Baltimore-born crew cut Jeffie Jefferds, he of cobalt laughing eyes and that slightly foolish hanging of the nether lip that had the chicks subsiding 'neath his brawny shoulders, lithe limbs asplay.

I remember the moment: Jacqui Fischel had hinted that she'd wear my bracelet but the moment I walked in the club I knew I was sunk.

Jan 'n' Dean on the juke mocking me about Surf City ("Two girls for every boyyyy"), my best mate Richard avoiding my eye ... as over by the mats, Troy Donahue-lookalike Jeff dancing groin-close with la Jacqueline.

And Barkeep Tebster nails me bang to rights on the lie I told about brother Pete: Of course it wasn't his first visit to the States.

He's been thrice round the world:

Food & bev manager for various Hyatts in US and Manila

Chevalier de Tastevin

Professional chef par excellence

Yadda yadda

More to the point, I posted that tipster piece yonks ago but have only now  and only now been alerted to the comments thanks to Tebby's excellent contribution. And I now see a number of other equally helpful comments I missed at the time.

How many others do I miss, I wonder?