That excuse would have never flown back in the day, like not seeing this message written on the wall of my garage:
My place is an older beach house, so I liked to tell people that note was probably written in 1963. For years, I wondered who Brett, Fred and Jim were.
And then last night I was in my garage, when I heard a voice say, “Do you live here?” I turned around, and a guy approached and introduced himself. His name was Dave – the author of the note.
Turns out I was right about the year – Dave wrote it in 1963, when he was in high school and his dad owned the house. He used to have nine surfboards on racks on the garage wall, and Brett is actually the last name of his friend Bob Brett.
Dave was a really nice guy, and we talked and felt an unusual bond of having lived at the same address in two meaningful times in each of our lives, 50 years apart. I asked him all kinds of questions about the neighborhood back then, and then we took a photo together before he left.
It was all very trippy. And now that the question about that note is finally solved, I can focus on bigger mysteries – like why “Grease Live” was a thing last night. Please make it stop.
