Yes, I am such a relic that I can say I was in high school when the "streaking" fad peaked, along with two other unspeakably stupid fads, disco and CB radio. Of the three, streaking was not only the least nauseating, but also had these advantages: It was as fun to watch as it was to do, it got you out of doors (usually), and healthy exercise (running) was involved. It was also the only one of the three I ever participated in. But that was just me and a bud named Ken smoking dope, stripping down to unbuttoned button-down shirt and shoes, jumping on our ten-speeds for a 10 o'clock ride through the suburbs, often screaming. I think everybody did that. Didn't they? In my favorite streaking story, I was neither the streaker nor the streakee, but merely an amused observer. I went to an upper-middle-class all-white high school in the suburbs. The only tension that existed between groups in the school was the jocks-vs.-stoners issue, and even that was largely superficial. I had a neighbor my age from a nice, upright Mormon family named Brett. Brett was of the jock persuasion, but after my heathen buddies and I turned him on to dope, he started to come out of it. Years later, he would shoot himself in the mouth. But I'm getting off the subject. When you're in high school and without either license or car or both, you go with whoever has the wheels. That is how I found myself sharing space in a green Ford Country Squire Wagon with three of the jocular persuasion from my school -- Brett, Kevin Weed (who, frankly, looked like he was 27 or so), and Mike, who had borrowed his mom's land-yacht for a Friday of football and alcohol-based hi-jinx. Our school's football team had just won a game, and anyone who was anyone was hanging out at the local A