Allow me to take you on a brief tour of 1982.

A former actor inhabited the White House.

The Weather Channel aired on cable television for the first time.

A computer was named Time magazine's Man of the Year.

And a 13-year old boy from NJ had his very first date. And, man, was it painful.

Literally.

It Wasn’t Enough Being Man of the Year So You Had to Go & Sleep with a Billionaire?!? Tramp. (Photo: entrepreneur.com) — **It Wasn’t Enough Being *Man of the Year* So You Had to Go & Sleep with a Billionaire?!? Tramp. (**Photo: entrepreneur.com)

Ever had a moment so powerful that – even years later – you can recall the exact feeling you had when it first occurred? For some, it’s the birth of a child. For others, an exchange of vows.

Mine? Being told that my very first date was arranged and scheduled for me by my mother.

The feeling? I call it AngerTerrorYouveGotToBeF'inKIDDINGMe. And I may apply for a trademark on that term before I’m done with this story.

Arranged marriages are staples in many cultures. In fact, the divorce rate for such relationships is miniscule compared with that of traditional couplings. I think this has mainly to do with the stringent amount of parental involvement -- screening, analyzing -- to determine whether a match will work or fail.

However, this process should never apply to a barely-teen Italian-American lad from North Jersey whose closest encounter to an actual date before this was his daydream about making out with Brooke Shields in a pop-up tent after her appearance on Circus of the Stars.

HBO Taxicab Confession time: I wasn’t exactly suave in 1982. Some may argue that I’m not exactly suave in 2015 either. But those people are dicks.

Weather Channel forecast for my other 1st Date: Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Chachi. (Photo: childhoodrelived.com) — **Weather Channel forecast for my other 1st Date: Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Chachi.** (Photo: childhoodrelived.com)

Now, allow me to take you on a brief tour of ME in 1982:

I wore tinted-gray prescription glasses, which somehow made me look Asian.

I had a David Cassidy haircut which, in fairness, was completely cool 10 years earlier.

I wore chunky, brown Hush Puppies which, in fairness, would be completely cool 20 years later.

I am clearly not a man of my time.

Face it; I was practically undateable in the early 80’s. And to think, I had yet to thrust upon society:

* my Northeastern take on the Miami Vice look (hello, 1985; hello, aqua-colored linen);

* the Bagger Vance meets shoe-shine boy stylings of 1986 (white cap, colored dress shirt, white shoes and white pants tucked into colored socks), which pretty much destroyed the year for anyone who came within a 10-mile radius of me; or

* my suburban spin on hair-metal during the years 1987 through 1989 (lion’s mane, Winger/Tesla/Def Leppard/Metallica sleeveless t-shirt, size 27 jeans and faux snakeskin boots).

And we won’t even mention the tuxedo I wore to Senior prom, which looked like a cross between the Good Humor man and a barrio pimp.

No, we won’t mention that at all.

You see, there’s a reason why “war” is nearly 40% of “wardrobe”: the 80’s pretty much beat the hell out of me.

But in 1982, things were somehow simpler.

My 8th grade graduation took place in June and my parents threw a party at our home after the ceremony. In attendance was the class goddess; we’ll call her Kathleen, but only because that was her real name.

Now, one thing you might recall from being 13, was how much more advanced girls were than boys. Translation: Kathleen had developed her, um, feminine characteristics somewhat early. And was at least an inch taller than me.

League. My. Out of.

However, my mother, wearing her rose-colored glasses -- and in a highly appropriate coincidence is actually named Rose -- decided right then and there that her Partridge Family rerun-watching, Hush Puppy-styin’, Lavallo-san would soon become a man. So she called Kathleen the following week and asked her out on a date.

FOR me.

**The Puzzle Solved! You Want Chicks? Just Start a Band with your Mom.**

I’m not certain whether my AngerTerrorYouveGotToBeF'inKIDDINGMe™ (a registered trademark of LavalloCom International) was more due to the embarrassment of a parent arranging my first date, or simply the existence of the date itself.

With the class goddess.

Who had honest-to-God breasts.

And was 2.54 centimeters taller than me.

The height differential was my biggest problem. There was no way I was spending my first date staring straight into Kathleen’s nostrils (lovely as they were).

I found out about the date on a Friday. And I had until the following Friday night to grow ONE FULL INCH.

So I did what any smart Asian kid would do: I crunched some numbers.

Isn’t It Time YOUR Kids were Smart Enough to Push the U.S. Army into a Corner? (Photo: Time, Inc.) — **Isn’t It Time YOUR Kids were Smart Enough to Push the U.S. Army into a Corner?** (Photo: Time, Inc.)

I was certain that a whole lot of stretching would buy me at least half an inch. And wearing thick socks would buy me, oh, 8 or 10 cms. at least.

Turns out that reaching toward the ceiling rhythmically and wearing gym socks weren’t quite the height enhancers that Jazzercise promised me. The problem begged for a more creative solution.

Unfortunately, some creative solutions are a little over the top.

The CopperTop.

I don’t recall the exact thought process that led me to the idea of inserting AAA Duracell batteries in my shoes for added lift, but damn if that height deficit didn’t disappear like a cowgirl’s virginity at a prison rodeo.

**Adler: The Official Shoe Lifts of Men who Apparantly Date Drag Queens.**

You might ask how the shoes actually stayed on my feet with batteries under them. Welcome, my friends, to the 20-years-too-soon, high-ankle, tied-too-tight magic of Hush Puppies.

But despite the discomfort, my plan was set. Kathleen hadn’t seen me in 2 weeks and would naturally assume Mother Nature paid me a special visit during the fortnight.

Part two of my plan was even more brilliant: I chose an activity which required us to sit down for most of the evening (what we in the battery-in-shoe dating trade call a “movie and dinner”). And the movie I chose – Poltergeist -- was being touted as the scariest flick ever. This would virtually ensure Kathleen’s need for physical comforting. I had visions of her clutching my hand like a children’s toy.

[Editor’s Note: A children’s toy which required four Triple-A batteries.]

The plan was foolproof. Except for the fact that approximately 45% of the word foolproof is “fool”.

Her Last Name is 45 Proof (a WAAAAAYYY Funnier Joke Before She, You Know, Died of Alcohol Poisoning). (Photo: Wenner Media) — ***Her Last Name is 45 Proof (a WAAAAAYYY Funnier Joke Before She, You Know, Died of Alcohol Poisoning).*** (Photo: Wenner Media)

You see, I had visions of romance. Of laughter in the rain. Of seasons in the sun. And of other songs from 1974 not named (You’re) Having My Baby.

Unfortunately Casey, the #1 song that week was (You’re) Having My Dad as a Chaperone for the Entire Night.

The Peanuts gang went, like, 50 years without a peep of parental oversight. Yet here I am, suffering the dual indignity of alkaline chunks assaulting my arches, and my father performing a battery on my rep as a ladies man.

I’d love to say the rest of the evening was a Barry White song, but my only shot at love that night would have been to bite her on the neck and draw first blood.

Other highlights of the evening included:

* Her 6’7” father answering the door and making me feel like even standing on top of a Duracell factory in that moment would have rendered me insignificant.

* My yelping with fear when the toy clown in Poltergeist attacked the little boy under the bed.

* Kathleen putting a quarter in the jukebox at the restaurant and asking if I wanted to dance. (My mental response: No I don't want to DANCE you evil, twisted pubescent Amazonian.)

Necromancer or...Neck Romancer?

So it wasn’t the ideal encounter. And sure, I wish I had arranged my own entrée into date-dom.

But thinking back, what was I supposed to do in 1982? There was no Tinder back then, let alone for 13-year olds. Well, I guess technically there’s no dating site for teens now. There should be!

Introducing Teen-der™ (a registered trademark of LavalloCom International).

**Say What You Will About Tinder, But I Hear It Has A Very High Penetration Rate Among Urban Singles.**

I never saw young Kathleen again after that night.

But in a remarkable coincidence, Poltergeist has been remade.

Since I’m now over 6’ tall, I’d feel totally confident asking out Kathleen for our own sequel. Hell, for nostalgia’s sake, I’d even break out those batteries again.

There's just one small problem:

How the hell do I get my father to sit through Poltergeist again?