No you can't go back. No you can't go home. Everybody you loved as an adult as a youngster is going to be dead and the neighborhood is going to be changed.

The last time I drove by the new "house" that my father had built on the G.I. Bill in 1953 in Hempstead brought tears to my eyes.

Dopedick me joins up. I make contact with people I have not seen in more than 40 years and it's no good. Things are gone - like our youth and everything we had in common together.

I see Harry Hughes and Harry Callahan. Both were Marines and so was I but I never served with either one except as a ballplayer in the sandlots when we were kids. Both were tough kids and nice guys - Hughes got busted on a burglary at Our Lady of Loretto in Hempsted, NY and Callahan is a retired Nassau County homicide detective. Both are tough Irish sonsuvbitches and probably rough guys today. I have nothing in common with these men now after the decades that have gone by although I do remember my sister Martha belting the crap out of Harry Hughes after he beat me up one day.

Claudette Dussol is looking for me. I haven't seen her in 46 years and she was hot (graduated Hempstead High in '64). She speaks French and so do I.

The possible filth and gropes and the adultery might be worth a shot with Claudette.

On a serious note, it's nice to stay home and let the years that are gone stay gone.

Only Valerie C. with the 38-inch rack and the 24-inch waist could get me interested again with the high school old days.

I got some "lookups" from three girls I always wanted to nail in high school - Claudette, Liga and Patricia.

After 45 years I'm thinking I can still score if I can get a haircut and bus fare and maybe a shave and a shower.