In 1979, when I was 17, I worked at Six Flags (Yes, Youth Prison Camp). I started out on "grounds," walking around with a broom and a dustpan. I opted for this position because it kept me close to the stage outside the Chevy Show, where my boyfriend's band, Toledo, played Chicago covers all day. I could keep a close eye on him while I was sweeping up cigarette butts and dreamsicle sticks. I put up with people spitting on me from the cable cars overhead okay, but the first time I was handed a shaker can of some stuff that looked like cat litter and instructed to clean up vomit, I demanded a transfer. I wanted a job where I could use my brains, I told them, so they put me at the front gate, selling tickets. There I sat all alone in a little glass booth, counting the minutes along with the pennies. Eventually, I dreamed up ways to keep myself entertained--little one act plays, starring George Washington and Andrew Jackson; changing the lyrics to songs to make them dirty (sometimes it only took altering two letters, as in my classic version of the Lionel Richie song, I Do Love You...Stiff); and one of my favorites, telling the little boys who wore Farrah tees that the shirts weren't allowed because they were considered inappropriate (you probably could have worn crotchless panties and a headdress into the park as long as you paid the admission). I'd tell them this after their moms had driven out of sight (this before cell phones), and they'd try not to cry, asking me what they should do. Then I'd offer the only possible solution in my sweetest big-sisterly voice: "You'll have to turn it inside out, and don't let security see you or they'll arrest you." These were 8- to 10-year-olds, mind you. Man, I miss that fun.