Steve The Manager left Camelot Music for a bigger store down in Florida. Our new boss was a 24 year-old named Rich who sported cowboy boots and a poodle mullet. Almost immediately he fired Alex, Steve’s right-hand man and the guy who got me my job, and brought in his own assistant manager.
Rich was a creep in the most literal sense of that word — he crept. Spotting his bleached blond curly perm lurking across the mall was our live-action version of Where’s Waldo. Or he’d sneak in through the back door and hide in his darkened office, peeking at us through the two-way mirror at the back of the store. Sometimes he’d pretend to go out of town in hopes of catching us fucking off, which he did.
Remarkably few songs have been written about drive-in restaurants. Go figure — I’d think somebody could knock one out while waiting for a chili cheese-a-plenty.
But they haven’t, and I’m hellbent on a “drive-in” playlist this week, so here’s what you get, even if they are about drive-in movies:
Politics and observational bitching aren’t my wheelhouses. There are plenty of places out there for you to read that stuff, so I stick to music and true tales of puking strawberry daquiri into my neighbor’s bushes circa 1979. There’s enough snarkiness on the intergooglewebtubes without me piling on.
But recently I attended a family reunion where I was more or less shoehorned into the role of the whackadoo liberal nephew from California, home of the gays and the hippies. Also, The Beach Boys. At one point I noted that I don’t consider myself a liberal, at which point my extended family uttered a collective “That’s okay, we all do.”
That’s the rub with American politics circa 2012 (or at least American political rhetoric): you’re either a NAMBLA-defending tree sitter or you’re humping your assault rifle while staring at your Reagan poster. I don’t fit either stereotype, nor do most Americans fit these ready-made red and blue clichés.
The majority of us are silent members of the Lemelo Party. Never heard of us? Here’s some information on our organization: Continue reading
Sad news out of Florida this morning that head Monkee and Marcia Brady prom date Davy Jones succumbed to a heart attack. I’m sure there will be plenty of “Last Train to Clarksville” puns, but you won’t find any here.
The Monkees loomed large for my generation. They were part of a small group of artists that appeared in every elementary schooler’s record collection in the early Seventies, the others being John Denver, Neil Diamond, and the Beach Boys.
Ninth grade was a very strange time. I was a member of The Guys In Black Tee Shirts Who Jam, but I wasn’t hardcore enough for Prevo, or prevocational school. I played Advanced Dungeons and Dragons thanks to my thirty year old yard work boss and most recent father figure, not to mention the AD&D weekends at Winthrop College with my older sister’s crowd. Continue reading