Popular music has a knack for engraining itself in the sub conscious, forever associated with a particular time, place and experience. My music library is littered with "like" songs, each carrying a story unto itself, immediately catapulting me back in time to some "special time".

Everyone has 'em…first love, getting into trouble at East Park (oh, that's just me?), the song you first slow danced to…or in my case, my first slow skate.

Unfortunately, the experience is not right out of the pages of a harlequin romance. Nay!

You see, at the tender age of eleven, I was not what you might call a "proficient skater"; much to the contrary, actually. I was in the group of "boys that didn't know how to backwards skate".

"The Club of Slow, Painful Co-Ed Skating Death" was more like it.

While this may not seem like a big deal to you now, it was then! For this reason, I was more likely to embrace the humiliation of the "Hokey Pokey" than face the embarrassment of both:

a) asking a fine, young filly to skate

b) THEN deal with the choice of either "holding hands side-by-side" (lame!) or worse, allow her to take the lead; with HER backwards skating while I followed passively.

Neither of these were good options, but I did have to face my fear. Read on!

(Insert creepy way-back music)

It was a Cub Scout outing (yeah, nothing says "chick magnet" like a freshly-pressed Scout uniform), and as a pack, we rode to roller-skating rink in Fish Lake, MN. As I look back, the rink was not comprised of smooth, "forgiving" concrete; assuring that ANY spill, however demoralizing, would most certainly result in an all-over body bruise of some sort.

When one is eleven years old, and not particularly adept at the finer art/skill of roller-skating nor blessed with good balance (still not, thank you), what makes you think that when I spill, I am going to spill…gracefully?

To the contrary, over the years, I have honed the art of "landing" with the MOST possible body action possible. Arms flailing, leg splaying…it's something straight out of a "Snagglepuss" cartoon (yun'uns, look it up!). Think that's funny?...you should see me ski!

But I digress, for you see, the roller-skating rink at Fish Lake, MN was NOT constructed of concrete….no, that would've been akin to soo-ooo many other spill stories…not to mention, we still have yet to discuss "the Song".

The roller-skating rink surface in Fish Lake, MN was made of….WOOD!!

Think about that for a moment, will you? We are not talking about a well-polished, garden-variety parquet (like one might find at Boston Garden); NO! It was old and dry…and yes, warped in places. This hostile environment did not lend itself well to the raw skating skills of this up & coming adolescent.

I guess of all the things for the people of Fish Lake, MN to take pride (care of) in, their wooden roller-skating rink floor was not one of them. Earlier that evening, I had "experienced" first hand (yes, pun intended) what it felt like when one's body meet this unforgiving surface. On one (of many) spills, I swear the splinter than impaled the palm of my tender hand was of the "Christ on the Cross" variety.

Undaunted, I tarried on, determined to ask the girl of this particular night to skate. Her name was Diane Starr…ahhhh, how could I forget that name? If she wasn't the slow skate "girl of my dreams", I always thought (much, much later in life, mind you) that name would be good if she were a ****** "STAR(R)" (again, pun intended).

Of course, at the time, I was solely focused on the task at hand…or foot. Now to be fair, I did approach her earlier and we DID (normal) skate.

You see, I was working up to the moment…OK, I was building up my (stupidity?) courage. The two were songs/skates of the norm…I don't remember one, but the other was Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover". "Make a new plan, Stan"?? Really!

What I do remember clearly is that on both occasions, I managed to complete the mission without incident (accident).

Alas, Little Steven's confidence was growing. What an ambitious little camper, he was.

It was only a matter of time before "The Limbo" was over, the "Hokey Pokey" a fading memory, and we'd sung in our best falsetto (which is easy to do when your voice sounds a little like Peter Brady) "Love is higher than a mountain, Love is thicker than water".

The lights dimmed, and the disco ball began it's slow, taunting rotation that clearly said, "It's time".

So, with an unfamiliar (yet growing) sense of machismo, I (again) approached the fair maiden, Diane Starr to…slo-ooow skate.

Why not? I had nothing to fear (other than a matching stake through my other palm, perhaps)…after all, we had history, we'd already skated to TWO songs.

It didn't matter. I was immediately frozen with fear as we converged on the splintered "rink of death" hand-in-hand.

What would I do?

Would I attempt to skate backwards, despite the fact that I had to date never tried it, much less succeeded?

Would I allow her to "lead"? Even though I was only a "Wolf" Scout at the time, I still had my dignity. There was no freakin' way I was going to allow the girl to lead.

So, choices exhausted, I settled for the old stand-by, hand holding.

For the record, I have never "slow skated" with my Mom (that's just weird, y'all), but if I DID, the thought of holding hands felt something like that…a little awkward.

OMG! Which hand?

Right hand? No, that still bore the log-like sliver of pine jammed through it.

Left hand? What choice did I have?

Crap!...are my palms sweating? I don't even think I was using "big boy deodorant" yet, how could THIS be happening?

Side Note: am I the ONLY one that ever got lulled into a false sense of proficiency skating on the carpet BEFORE your greased wheels hit the rink surface?!?

Well, this has been quite a bit of buildup for what you are soon to discover is NOT, in of itself, that exciting. We did, indeed, hold hands and I did look longingly and perhaps jealously at the other boys that were deftly skating backwards with their dates.

However, I was the only one skating with the cute girl with the really cool name. That had to count for something, after all.

Mercifully, I managed to stay afoot for the entire four minutes and two seconds of Paul Davis' "I Go Crazy" (after all, what says "slow skate' more than that song?). There was no Scout merit badge waiting for me and, alas, I never saw young Diane Starr again.

None of that matters now. That song will forever be associated with the experience. I cannot (don't) listen to AM radio, or dig out old K-Tel cassettes and hear the refrain of that (traumatizing) song without thinking of Fish Lake.

***Public Service Notification: this shout-out goes out to everyone in Central MN all the way from...Central IA. Before you start with the really lame Iowa jokes, I will clarify that I AM a MN refugee serving his time south o' the border. More on (heh! He said "Moron") that another time!***