Like a concerned older brother, Frank would comment on the boys I would meet or go out with. He found my story interesting though anything I seemed to do was humorous about how I met a boy at POP during one of the pop music events or school outings and we decided to hang out together and go on rides. And the boy turned out to be the son of the man who had started Sambo's restaurant
in Santa Barbara (a pancake house near the ocean that my family had actually dined in when we went up to Santa Barbara one time for a day's outing which culminated in watching a parade of some sort with the added attraction of the Eugene Biscailuz mounted posse
. This boy and I would talk on the telephone every now and again, teenage stuff.
So that was about it, you see. Rudyard Kipling in restaurants and Joel Chandler Harris at home all mysteriously end up as pancakes that people eat without thinking about them too much.