Barry lived like a dot all-over the U.S. map in his first fifteen years, five cities by the time Miss Hanson played our kindergarten piano in Rochester, New York. Dad was a WW1, Roaring 20's, Depression-era firstborn son of Eastern European immigrants. He lied about his age and Judaism in order to caddy at the exclusive golf country club, impressed by the big man with the big Havana cigar and the big white Cadillac. Joe determined he would be that man one day, and fell onto the noble sword of impulse a time or two. JFK was in office as 35th President when Dad moved the family to Buffalo, New York. Barry knew no one, studied hard, and sought ways to fit in and realize a simple dream. Just to be one of the guys. His nascent high school brotherhood expanded at The University of Buffalo, and exploded at the Angola beach cottage on Lake Erie we named The Boondocks. We had no need for Greek letters. For eight summers The Boondocks meant giddy, harmless debauchery, filled with music and laughs. We were so many clowns, a few of whom were most funny for their inescapable inability to be funny. These were my most memorable days of joy, unfortunately acted out in the conflicting context of the cry for civil rights and an end to the war in Viet Nam. We never lost sight of the critical requirement of The Almighty Laugh through it all. Friendship. Fraternity. Brotherhood. Boondocks. Fifty years and counting.