Almost every day we were in my room, my garage, my back yard, or my living room playing music, listening to music, discussing music, or writing music. Tiggy and I didn't always agree on what amounted to good music. We both loved to play, but I could never really get into the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds. To me, it was too disjointed, too radically different. Tiggy, on the other hand, just loved it. He would go on and on about the brilliance of Brian Wilson and I would just shake my head and try to change the subject. You had to pick and choose your battles with Tiggy. If he felt strongly about something he would hammer it over and over again until you either agreed or managed to distract him.

We both loved Procol Harum's Whiter Shade of Pale and the Beatles' Sgt Pepper album. I think this was where Tiggy first got into the idea of music as a bridge. I mean, we all saw how music brought people together, but I never really understood how anyone could write an entire album's worth of music around a single concept. At that time, every album had an assortment of cover songs, regurgitated hits, and one or maybe two potential hit singles. The whole music industry was built around creating a hit song with a decent B-side, then filling in the rest with fluff. What Tiggy was talking about was standing the music industry on its ear and changing it forever. He was not even 12-years old!

It boggled my mind. Here we were struggling just to write a song, how could any artist have the brains, stamina, and creativity to write 10-12 songs for a single album? Moreover, how could they find the creative vision to pull off something like that? It would be like turning a single record into a motion picture, with a beginning middle and end that told a story from start to finish. Looking at Tiggy, and watching as the gears turned, I was awed by the realization that my friend was a genius.

School for us was a bit weird, to say the least. the Beatles had made long hair fashionable, but it also created a situation where the school began to institute certain rules of dress in order to maintain the illusion of control. The war was heating up in Viet Nam. Hippies were migrating to the west coast, especially to the San Francisco area. Hollywood was also popular, and it was becoming apparent that political change was in the air. More and more, young people were becoming a force to be reckoned with.

As with all social reform movements, the government, and the media were making inroads to co-opt the popularity and bend it to their own will. The Monkees were at the height of their popularity. The Smothers Brothers were facing their first encounters with censorship. Web spent many evenings watching The Beverly Hillbillies, Gilligan's Island, Hogan's Heroes, Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie. I never noticed anything unusual about Tiggy. He just was my friend, my very best friend.

It was also a big year in history. A spark in the cockpit of the Apollo I spacecraft during a routine test took the lives of astronauts Virgil I (Gus) Grissom, Edward H. White II, and Roger B. Chaffee before they could escape from the oxygen-fueled conflagration. Despite this disastrous beginning, men would actually walk on the moon 30 months later. It was an amazing time to be alive. Change was in the air, and you could almost taste it with every breath, or maybe that was just the southern California smog. Looking back, we were only children, but we had a firm belief in ourselves and our ability to change the world.

Tiggy was often a guest in my home. He spent the night more times than I can count. We talked about everything. Sex was definitely a topic for late night discussion, and we described acts that defy reality since neither of us had any real experience. With no internet, porn was dirty magazines at the liquor store down the street, glossy magazines covers with buxom women in scanty bathing suits. These were more an unattainable goal than a fact of life for a pair of 12-year olds. Neither of us had older siblings to show us naked pictures of women, and despite the fact that all the other boys talked about getting into their fathers' porn stash, I was never able to find my own dad's.

We experimented with sex, meaning we masturbated. We never touched each other during these late night jerk-fests, we just competed for things like time, distance, accuracy, or volume. It was a way to challenge each other, but it also gave me (being almost a year older) an unfair advantage. I was taller than Tiggy. I had more body and pubic hair. I was also pretty proud of a patch of fuzz on my upper lip. I also had a larger penis, which made these minor nocturnal victories that much more satisfying.

I don't think I ever did anything to make Tiggy feel diminished in these events. I certainly never discussed them with anyone else. We were friends, and it would have been wrong for either of us to do anything to diminish the other. I was not the largest student at Rio Hondo Elementary, nor at Sierra Junior High. I was big for my age, but not unusually large. I was, however, inordinately aggressive when provoked. Growing up on military bases, I had learned very early on how to defend myself. In a foreign country, especially, Americans were not always popular. I quickly learned the basic tenets of manual combat, strike early and strike often.

I was the protector, the defender. I had a casual, laid-back demeanor that most other students seemed to appreciate. I was popular and active in school. I also made it clear that Tiggy was my best friend and anything that concerned him concerned me. I think that might have helped him early on, in those first couple years of our friendship. By the time we were entering our teens, it was almost unnecessary because Tiggy was extremely popular.

I know that it seems weird that Tiggy wasn't the quiet, mousy, introvert that would fit the stereotypical point of view. He was small, slim, had long curly hair and was so pretty that people were always mistaking him for a girl. He was the product of a broken home, never knowing his real father, and suffering physical abuse at the hands of his step-dad. His mother was an alcoholic that heaped criticism on her only child. She blamed Tiggy for her lack of a man in her life, for her loneliness, for her lack of a life. Every single problem in her life was his fault.

The only real bright side of his home life was that his mom was usually either, out drinking, or in passed out. She owned their house, as it was left to her by her parents, along with an annuity check that gave her the resources to pay for necessities, bills, and property taxes. Unfortunately, proper clothing and groceries for her only child did not constitute 'necessities' in her mind. I am sure that child welfare organizations would have been investigating if it wasn't for the intervention of others in the community. Despite all of these factors, most people never saw the real Lesley Dana Anderson.

What people saw was a construct. It was a role that he played, like an actor in a film, and he played it very well. He was bouncy, outgoing, energetic, charming, witty, and positive any time he interacted with others. His effervescent attitude quickly earned him the nickname 'Tigger' after Winnie the Pooh fame. This was quickly reduced to Tiggy or Tig. He was the life of every party. All the girls adored him, and none of the boys dare comment on his being less than a picture of masculinity.

I knew it was an act, but it was a wonderful act that I embraced along with those who never knew the abused little boy in the shadows of this larger than life character. In retrospect, I realize that Tiggy needed professional help, but all I could give him was unconditional love and friendship. My family only ever caught glimpses of that overenthusiastic alter ego. Around them, he was always soft-spoken, polite, and helpful. In return, they gave him a family, embracing him as if he were their own.