Terry and I attended the same high school in Santa Monica in the mid 1970’s – a good time and a good place to be a teenager. Terri and I were not close, but we were tangentially connected through others (Robert Benson, Aaron Salter, etc.). I did not know her well, but I always felt she seemed troubled in a way I could never really grasp or define. In all honesty, I admired Terri from afar in the way a teenaged boy admires the object of his hopeless desire – an object, a goal, that can never be achieved.
I graduated high school in 1976. In 1979 the clockwork movement of the Universe put me in a convenience store where I saw a copy of the February 1977 edition of Penthouse magazine:
Inside I saw Terri.
Does she walk? Does she talk? Does she come complete? My homeroom homeroom angel Always pulled me from my seat.
She was pure like snowflakes. No one could ever stain
The memory of my angel Could never cause me pain.
Years go by – I’m lookin’ through a girly magazine And there’s my homeroom angel on the pages in-between.
My blood runs cold My memory has just been sold My angel is the centerfold Angel is the centerfold
Slipped me notes under the desk While I was thinkin’ about her dress I was shy I turned away Before she caught my eyeI was shakin’ in my shoes Whenever she flashed those baby-blues Something had a hold on me When angel passed close by.
Those soft and fuzzy sweaters
Too magical to touch
Too see her in that magazine
Is really just too much.
It’s okay, I understand This ain’t no never-never land I hope that when this issue’s gone I’ll see you when your clothes are on
Take you car,
Yes we will We’ll take your car and drive it We’ll take it to a motel room And take ’em off in private
A part of me has just been ripped The pages from my mind are stripped Oh no, I can’t deny it Oh yea, I guess I gotta buy it…
My blood runs cold
My memory has just been sold
My angel is the centerfold
Angel is the centerfold
Have been a fan of Terri since No More Words and Sex. Heard she’d done the centrefold, but never had the inclination to look up it up, still don’t.
‘s funny. Somehow that keeps her more classy to my mind.
Wish I’d known her even on your level.
Thank you for the post and the memories.
Also I’m intrigued, what dastardly porpoise you could have been up to in the Arabian desert that combined a knack for languages & an ability to color in without smudging or going outside the lines. Could it be your state department had designs on replacing the pink of the Brit empire, with Red, White & Blue, but missed the point of map colouring, thus sent a team of crack coloring in specialists to actually tint the desert sands?
Btw, one of my high school friends did a “spread” in OzBiker mag. Not quite so classy.
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Hi Paul. Do you have this magazine still? I’m trying to find the name of an illustrator that I *think* has a spread in there. It’s in a spray illustration style and one picture has biker-type women worshiping a giant phallus with lightning bolts. Sounds kinky but pieces are quite incredible. Please let me know if you can.