By Laura Boswell
Special to Page 2

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

It's 7 p.m. some winter night in 1983 or so, and there I am, bucktoothed and badly permed, chewing on a hot flop of nuclear orange, greasy pizza I've acquired with the dollar my father gave me, awaiting the show. I'm wearing my lucky blue-and-white striped sweater. And once again in the mirror, I've accidentally scribbled "MSU #1" backward on my face with my mother's eyeliner, leaving me with a sort of dyslexic blue hieroglyphics on my cheeks. No matter. All lights cease, suddenly, into tingly ...

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