As a kid, I spent about 99.5% of my summer bouncing from one neighbor’s pool to the next. Such is the life of an Arizona suburban kid. As soon as our mothers would set us free in the morning, we’d race out the door in our bathing suits, gather our posse together – the Martocchia twins across the street, the Higgens girls to the left and the Janovski girls to the right – and descend upon one of our houses like a pack of rabid, swimming wolves. Our days were filled with endless games of Marco Polo, complicated synchronized swimming routines, diving competitions, gymnastic tricks and hundreds of rounds to see who could hold their breath underwater the longest. We were a group of deeply tanned, bleached blonde kids with chlorine induced bloodshot eyes. Summer zombies. Occasionally to break up the daily swimming sessions, we’d jump on our banana seat bikes and ride to the 7-Eleven several blocks away for a treat. Indicative of the time, we were probably barefoot, definitely helmetless and absolutely unaccompanied. Ah, the freedom of the 70’s-80’s!
STRESSCAKE 