When I get home from Sunday Service, I strip my pressed white shirt in the living room. I step out of my slacks. Peel off the tight black socks. I fumble naked for my dive skin, the black and blue ... [+]
The way Little Miss Perfect tells it, you'd think I was head of a gang of street thugs when I was a kid. We weren't thugs, we were twelve. All we wanted was some prize money, or at least a bit of pie.
First of all, the garden hose wasn't my idea. Yeah, it came from our yard. Kyle grabbed it and slung it over his handlebars before we headed downtown. He was a little klepto, even then: I know for a fact he had duct tape, two jackknives, and a Playboy he lifted from Drago's in his backpack that day.
It was Father's Day, 1985, and the Crust'N'Crumb Bakery was holding its first annual blu