Teenage Angst

The Great Plotnik is told that teenage angst is a crucial component in the Blognik world. He remembers teenage angst, the terror of calling a girl on the phone, pimples, hair that would not comb, the death of a best friend, feet that could not dance, the cold halls of a new school, being small in a world of big. He is glad there was no blogging then. He wouldn't want to read about any of that now.

But The Great Plotnik also remembers his first bike, his first car, his first kiss. He remembers The Magic Kingdom when it was new, the way green grass shone at the ballpark, the taste of warm, ripe peaches from the tree in the backyard. He remembers the way Grannie Plotnik smelled like Ivory soap, and Grampie Plotnik like Bering cigars. He remembers orchards of fragrant lemon blossoms, fresh apricot jam on home made dinner rolls, chocolate cake batter licked off the side of a long flat knife, and that if he just ran and ran and ran, when Brother Shmeckl threw him a long pass, time would stop for everyone but him -- and not start again until the ball dropped from the sky right into his arms.

The Great Plotnik closes his eyes and he's still running, tasting, licking, smelling, living. He remembers the angst too, but the way The Great Plotnik figures it, angst, if you can just get past it, always loses out to sweet memories.