01-24-2022, 08:36 PM
brobdingnagian part of growing up in the '70s, particularly those of us who never got very close to a dashboard light, not to mention paradise. (By the time that happened, I was in my dad's 1978 Audio 4000 with bucket seats.)
Wore out needles spinning Bat Out of Hell in a basement. Lost track of the number of times we piled in my best friend's white Ranchero, Ford's El Camino knockoff, to cruise Colfax, pick up chicks, and catch RHPS at the midnight movie in downtown Denver. Pick up chicks? What a bunch of knuckleheads. Like teenage girls would just flock to that Ranchero and ride through Colorado winters in the open air back just because of that sheer animal magnetism and whatever god awful cologne we doused everything in. So at least there was Meat Loaf. It's the Bat Out of Hell guy! Ultimately, it was Meat Loaf, people dressed like Meat Loaf throwing toast, and more importantly, young women in their underwear. Eventually we came close, meeting up with some girls from our high school. Kinda. But you have two doofs in a Ranchero or some stud that looked astoundingly like Peter Hindwood. Not hard to imagine why they wanted to come back the next week. "So see you here? Maybe we can get some Godfathers' (Pizza)!" "Uh, yeah, whatever." (Staring back at the golden god 'dressed' like Rocky flexing in the late night snow.) Oh they were back the next Saturday all right. This time the girl of my dreams/fantasies/prayers/thoughts 24-7 pure and not so pure was dressed as the one in the skimpy outfit just as hot/not quite as creepy as that other one. She was on the prowl and it wasn't for some guy riding shotgun in his buddy's Ranchero. I sat next to her all year in calculus. All I could see was that costume.
Pretty sure she went to Oxford (England not Mississippi). I tricked her into a Homecoming date. Pretty sure she went off with the Ranchero's owner at his graduation party, right about when my dad swung by to take me right past the RHPS venue to the Trailways station on skid row to begin my summer adventure in the oil fields of Wyoming.
Anyway, two out of three ain't bad.
Wore out needles spinning Bat Out of Hell in a basement. Lost track of the number of times we piled in my best friend's white Ranchero, Ford's El Camino knockoff, to cruise Colfax, pick up chicks, and catch RHPS at the midnight movie in downtown Denver. Pick up chicks? What a bunch of knuckleheads. Like teenage girls would just flock to that Ranchero and ride through Colorado winters in the open air back just because of that sheer animal magnetism and whatever god awful cologne we doused everything in. So at least there was Meat Loaf. It's the Bat Out of Hell guy! Ultimately, it was Meat Loaf, people dressed like Meat Loaf throwing toast, and more importantly, young women in their underwear. Eventually we came close, meeting up with some girls from our high school. Kinda. But you have two doofs in a Ranchero or some stud that looked astoundingly like Peter Hindwood. Not hard to imagine why they wanted to come back the next week. "So see you here? Maybe we can get some Godfathers' (Pizza)!" "Uh, yeah, whatever." (Staring back at the golden god 'dressed' like Rocky flexing in the late night snow.) Oh they were back the next Saturday all right. This time the girl of my dreams/fantasies/prayers/thoughts 24-7 pure and not so pure was dressed as the one in the skimpy outfit just as hot/not quite as creepy as that other one. She was on the prowl and it wasn't for some guy riding shotgun in his buddy's Ranchero. I sat next to her all year in calculus. All I could see was that costume.
Pretty sure she went to Oxford (England not Mississippi). I tricked her into a Homecoming date. Pretty sure she went off with the Ranchero's owner at his graduation party, right about when my dad swung by to take me right past the RHPS venue to the Trailways station on skid row to begin my summer adventure in the oil fields of Wyoming.
Anyway, two out of three ain't bad.