By Phil Riske | Managing Editor
Just this week, there have been at least three stories involving the iconic fast food company, McDonald’s.
The name triggered a teenage memory I’d just as soon forget.
I had secured an afternoon date with Lila, who — and I’m not exaggerating — looked just like teenage heartthrob, Annette Funicello.
Wow, wait ‘til my buddies see me with her.
I was looking boss: crisply starched and ironed Levis with the perfect narrow cuff; white t-shirt, with the sleeves rolled in narrow folds to show off my biceps, which were pretty big from wrestling; white socks; penny loafers, all topped off with my “Princeton” hairstyle (flattop with long sides combed into a “ducktail.”), slickened back with “butch wax.”
My parents agreed to let me have the family car for two hours, and I was off to McDonald’s, one of several spots where the cool cats hung out. To show off whom I was with to my cronies, I circled the restaurant a couple times so they could see her.
I was flush with a $5 bill and got out of the car to buy us lunch.
Strutting like the stud of the school, I walked to place our order.
The glass door to the inside had just been washed and it looked like it was open.
I walked right into it nose first.
As I was getting up off my butt on the sidewalk, the honking and jeers from my “friends” began and didn’t let up ‘til I drove off.
My dream date could not stop giggling.
I don’t remember eating the $.15 hamburgers.
