All right, "Frieda."
Pay attention.
OK.
"Frieda, back in the '50s, one day her boyfriend
in black denims, white t-shirt, sleeves rolled up,
hair greased back, cigarette dangling, surly, I suppose,
behind his shades, picked her up after school in his black Ford,
top down.
And she frivolously tossed her books,
jumped in so he could vroom off, leave
us ninth grade boys in awe, though no one considered
her even close to pretty.
But her car wouldn't start and wouldn't start
and we stood around waiting, amused.
And the car wouldn't start.
And Frieda froze and sang to herself.
I'm sure this would happen to me,
wouldn't start, wouldn't start, and Frieda's boyfriend
pressing, pressing the button, staying cool, cool.
But it wouldn't.
And Frieda trying hard not to.
This would-- would happen to me.
Wouldn't start, wouldn't start, until finally, somehow, it
cranked over and he peeled out, tires screeching, muffler
roaring, vrooming, leaving us gawking,
the way he meant it all to be in the first place."
[LAUGHTER]
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.