I am not from your time period. I’m from a generation long ago and far away. Long before the Internet and I phones. Before DVD’s and even, believe it or don’t, before CD’s. A time when "body art" was only on people fresh from military prison. A time when your skateboard and comic books were in the closet right next to the other shit you stopped needing when you turned twelve. Back in a time when we pulled our pants all the way up past our ass. Past our ass with pride! It was called the"late seventies/early eighties".
Looked upon as a waste of a decade by everyone during the eighties, the seventies were pretty uneventful. Not much was really going on back then.
President Jimmy Carter, of all people, had the keys to the White House in his pocket. That’s right, he was a president long before he was an asshole! He was the second worst president in political history. I’m pretty certain the winner of the "Name the Worst Commander in Chief" contest will be announced in January of ’09.
The seventies, was the decade of the shortages. There were loads of them. There was a fuel shortage, a beef shortage, an energy shortage, and a shortage of jobs. There was an overabundance of nothing, save bad fashion. The two biggest names in fashion design back then, were Poly and Ester.
There were no homeless in the seventies. Back then they were called hobos. You could kick them and they didn’t seem to mind. An early form of anger management, if you will. Lose your job? Kick a hobo! Car breaks down . . . fix your car, drive to a train yard, and then kick a hobo! It was a simple life for good simple folk (unless you were a hobo . . . the kicking, obviously).
There was a shrill and wicked sound coming over what was then known as a radio. It was called "Disco" music and for all intents and purposes, it sucked. The disco era did however, have one redeeming value . . . it ended. Well, it ended for heterosexuals, anyway.
Fast forward to about '78, and that's where I step into the picture.
I’m paraphrasing Don McClean here, "the three things I admire most, the father, son, and the Holy Ghost, well they caught the last train for the coast" . . . because the seventies were all about sex, drugs, and rock and fucking roll! Blam! I said it!
It was a great time to be alive. Everybody’s stuff was getting done, man! There were no condoms, no discretion, and "aids" was just a delicious, chocolate covered, dietary supplement!
And don’t get me started on the drugs! There was something called a Quaalude, and . . . that . . . is all I can really remember.
And as for music, rock and roll was king. Bands such as Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Rolling Stones (who were all still in their early fifties at the time) were cranking out great music, like nobody’s business, and still doing it today! Except for the dead ones, these guys show no signs of Alzheimer’s and still have all of their hair. Long live rock!
There were southern rock bands like Lynard Skynard (pronounced lynard skynard) and The Allman Brothers Band. And don’t forget the Eagles! Okay, upon further review, you can for get the Eagles. Rock came at us from all directions, not just southerly. There were bands like Rush, and Frank Marino and Mahogany Rush (apparently Frank Marino really loved furniture). The punk rock phenomenon began, and much like a Quaalude, that’s all I can remember there. I do actually remember the time I went to see the Ramones. They were in Dallas and they were consciously aware that they were in Dallas. It was great!
Unfortunately for me, Jack Daniels proved to be a more than worthy adversary that night. I was the kling klang king of the rim ram room, I don’t mind telling you. But one thing for certain, and don’t you be mistaken for one moment, as I lay there on the floor in the men’s room at the Ramones concert, face down in my own disgust, and self loathing, my pants, my Levi’s’ 501 bell bottom jeans, were pulled all the way up to the top of my ass, the way pants should be worn. Who's with me? Ca'mon!
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