On September 8, 1958 (the first day I attended junior high school) I met Frank Mustappa. I didn’t know it at the time, but Frank would change my life. Despite the fact that he was a twelve-year-old boy, Frank was surprisingly mature. While the rest of us boys competed to see who could make the most explosive armpit noise, Frank practiced a more sophisticated and subtle brand of humor.

For instance, when the weather turned unseasonably warm one day, Frank played hooky and went swimming. The next morning, he brashly forged his own excuse letter, strutted into the principal’s office, and handed the bogus note to “The Man” himself. It read: “Dear Mr. Howard, please excuse Frank from school yesterday. It was a beautiful day, the bay was calling, and Frank went swimming.” The letter was signed, “My Mom.” The principal (as Frank had calculated) laughed at Frank’s moxie and sent him to class without so much as a minute’s detention—winning Frank the admiration of the entire student body.