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Short Hills/Cherry Hill type of Jersey—this was Central Jersey, bordering on the Jersey Shore. Ours was a town where an old drunk pimp named Squirrel strolled up and down Main Street every day, overly tan Italian Americans snapped gum and flexed their muscles on the boardwalk, and cool teenage girls used zinc oxide as a lipstick. Denim cutoffs were the epitome of style for men, usually accented by a ponytail and a stained white T-shirt. Many people commuted to New York City for work, including my father, as the majority of local opportunities were limited to teaching in the public schools, landscaping, or bartending at one of the bars in this small town. We all lived in the shadow of the great and powerful Jon Bon Jovi, who used the local water tower in the cover art of his latest album, aptly titled New Jersey . It seemed a lot of Bon Jovi’s songs were written about the everyday people in our area. The first verse of “Livin’ on a Prayer” seemed as if it were about our local“Tommy and Gina.” With some minor changes. In our town it would go something like this:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Lisa used to work as a stripper
Now she’s a waitress where she serves pork ribs to truckers
To truckers
Kevin mows lawns all day
He cries ’cause he’s sunburned
Lisa whispers, Baby it’s okay . . .
I’ve got aloe.
She says you’ve gotta save up to get that next tattoo
It doesn’t make a difference if it’s black and white or color
We’ve got each other and we don’t need no others
To get through the day
    Inspired by the local legends, Amanda and I spent most of our afternoons locking ourselves in her room and rerecording our demo on her Fisher-Price tape recorder. Amanda was very pretty, normal-size, and terribly naughty. She was tan even in the depths of winter, while I sported a pale, gaunt look even in the throes of summer. I was capable only of burning or freckling, never achieving a golden tan like Amanda’s beautiful skin could. Her hair was naturally straight, whereas mine was big, and not in a fun Jersey-in-the-’80s kind of way, but more of an old-spinster-gussied-up-for-the-widowers-at-temple kind of way. At times my mother had ironed it like they did in the ’60s, but I never let her finish the job, as I would panic mid-iron. Being eleven years old and having a steaming hot iron directly next to one’s skull can be a terrifying experience. Even my mother’s utterances of “Beauty must suffer pain” did not make it any easier. My hair was much more cut out for crimping.
    I really needed Amanda by my side to get a record deal; she’d be the face, but I’d be the talent—there was a reason Laverne needed Shirleyafter all. And if our demo sold, there was still time to cash in on the Debbie Gibson phase and begin touring the world wearing funky hats.
    Among our roster of original songs so far were “In Love with a Star” (written about Growing Pains heartthrob Kirk Cameron). It had a great hook:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Chances are . . . I’m in love with a star
    We also wrote “I Don’t Even Know What Love Means,” which counteracted the main message of “In Love with a Star.” With the less brilliant lyrics:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  You want me to tell you I love you
But I don’t even know what love means
    After Laverne & Shirley season 6, episode 113 “Not Quite New York,” I was inspired by the girls’ tenacity and realized I needed to kick my songwriting up a notch. One afternoon, alone in my bedroom, suddenly the lyrics just began flowing out of me.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  And I’d be thinking of you
Oh I just can’t bear it but I know it’s true
And you’ d be thinking of me
Oh I know it I know it I can see
And we’ d be singing this same song
Oh I know it I know it but I wish I wasn’t wrong
Listen boy and listen well
I