[Hulk01]

I earned some notoriety on these Stanford bulletin boards for my infatuation with the greatest Dollie ever.  And so it happened that seven years ago, a fellow early 70’s alum, and a likely poster here, sent me two photos of Cathleen Cabellero from those years.  One showed her riding piggy back on his shoulders and wearing what we then called a bikini. The two looked cozy but I never asked him the obvious.

I studied her at Stanford games but don’t remember ever seeing her on campus.  I remember thinking that she might belong to a select elite group of students, not more than ten, who lived in some special quarters up in Woodside.  She was Claudia Cardinale, Miss Out of My League. So if I ever had spotted her on campus I would not have done more than peek. Then and now I am someone who always has defied Steve Jobs’ advice, implicit in his comment that “it’s not the ones that you asked to dance that you regret later. It’s the ones that you didn’t”

A few years ago a fellow fan, who learned that I had achieved some success and the disposable income that magically transforms a male 6 into an 8, sent me a suggestion. Fly to Los Angeles and drive up to Malibu, he wrote, and show up at Cathleen’s no-doubt-massive front door.  Certainly she would be touched by my infatuation and comforted enough by the car and driver waiting in her three-car driveway that she would slip away for a nice Cab and some note-comparing. 

But we all change, which means I felt sure that she no longer was Cathleen Caballero and I no longer was the Stanford junior who looked too young to have a driver’s license.  Plus by that point I had married another lust-object, she from Pasadena, and felt content and often delirious, not knowing the hell and sociopathy that would arrive soon.

I did learn that, like me, Cathleen does not mate well in captivity. We currently are tied for our class lead in divorces, which hints to me that she may be every bit as tempestuous as I once dreamed.  Plus my tastes have changed.  I never felt satisfied with her successors, but three years ago came across a photo of the Michigan Rose Bowl Dollies and realized that Jeanette Jones, Susie Peterson, and Irene Maharam were the sexiest threesome ever to wear the Indian feathers and red-fringed boots (I just lost a breath there) or anything else that our beloved Dollies ever slipped on or--heaven please help me even more now--off.

If he is reading now, by the way, thanks for the two photos.  I look at them at least once every year and they always make me smile.  I suspect that you either no longer smoke or are too dead to read this; I hope the first.

God bless us all.  Stanford certainly did that for me, with or without the Divine Miss C.

[Hulk01]

I earned some notoriety on these Stanford bulletin boards for my infatuation with the greatest Dollie ever.  And so it happened that seven years ago, a fellow early 70’s alum, and a likely poster here, sent me two photos of Cathleen Cabellero from those years.  One showed her riding piggy back on his shoulders and wearing what we then called a bikini. The two looked cozy but I never asked him the obvious.

I studied her at Stanford games but don’t remember ever seeing her on campus.  I remember thinking that she might belong to a select elite group of students, not more than ten, who lived in some special quarters up in Woodside.  She was Claudia Cardinale, Miss Out of My League. So if I ever had spotted her on campus I would not have done more than peek. Then and now I am someone who always has defied Steve Jobs’ advice, implicit in his comment that “it’s not the ones that you asked to dance that you regret later. It’s the ones that you didn’t”

A few years ago a fellow fan, who learned that I had achieved some success and the disposable income that magically transforms a male 6 into an 8, sent me a suggestion. Fly to Los Angeles and drive up to Malibu, he wrote, and show up at Cathleen’s no-doubt-massive front door.  Certainly she would be touched by my infatuation and comforted enough by the car and driver waiting in her three-car driveway that she would slip away for a nice Cab and some note-comparing. 

But we all change, which means I felt sure that she no longer was Cathleen Caballero and I no longer was the Stanford junior who looked too young to have a driver’s license.  Plus by that point I had married another lust-object, she from Pasadena, and felt content and often delirious, not knowing the hell and sociopathy that would arrive soon.

I did learn that, like me, Cathleen does not mate well in captivity. We currently are tied for our class lead in divorces, which hints to me that she may be every bit as tempestuous as I once dreamed.  Plus my tastes have changed.  I never felt satisfied with her successors, but three years ago came across a photo of the Michigan Rose Bowl Dollies and realized that Jeanette Jones, Susie Peterson, and Irene Maharam were the sexiest threesome ever to wear the Indian feathers and red-fringed boots (I just lost a breath there) or anything else that our beloved Dollies ever slipped on or--heaven please help me even more now--off.

If he is reading now, by the way, thanks for the two photos.  I look at them at least once every year and they always make me smile.  I suspect that you either no longer smoke or are too dead to read this; I hope the first.

God bless us all.  Stanford certainly did that for me, with or without the Divine Miss C.