Another letter, from late '62. Very short. Not much of immediate interest. Except that he calls me "dear." As in: " must close now, dear..."

I have trouble sometimes believing that these letters were written to me. Sometimes they seem like something out of someone's old war diary. Didn't lovers in '40's movies call each other "dear." As in, "Oh, my dear...!"

And then he goes on to refer to his coming "graduation" as "big fuggin' deal!" And although the word for which that is a euphemism today slips from my lips as easily as chocolate slips in, and much more often, I would have been fairly shocked to hear it in those days.

So, 1962 can almost be called a lull between eras. The big bands are fading away. The Grateful Dead have yet to appear. Greer Garson and Irene Dunne are becoming passe'. They would have said, "but oh, my dear!"

Janis Joplin is on the not too distant horizon. "It's all the same fuckin' day," is what Janis would say.