[Crossposted to my LJ
It’s been quite a while since I last posted a Playelder story, and the community has been a little slow lately, so I thought I’d continue my Playelder restoration project. (Some background on Playelder may be found here
.) In tonight’s episode, Playelder relives his first encounter with…[dramatic organ chord
] Satanic music!
(As before, I have cleaned up the formatting and spelling, and have added footnotes for the benefit of those blissfully ignorant of what goes on behind the Zion Curtain, but have left the essence untouched.)Apples, Onions and Iron MaidenPosted by Playelder on December 15, 1998 at 14:17:00
I have nothing constructive, intelligent, or well thought out to add here. Just a stupid story.
As a child it was always a source of extreme embarrassment that I was an expert on music. And not the cool kind that my ultra-chic and -hip friends listened to. No, unfortunately I was an expert on the Golden Oldies and all that Happy Days sock-hop stuff that makes your parents get that wistful look in their eyes as they long to recapture the days of their carefree youth before you ever came along, a twisted wretched result of one night at Inspiration Point in their dad’s ’57 Chevy. And he wasn’t pissed at them so much as because of what they did together, but what they did to the shocks in the Chevy as they did what they did together. Whenever they got that look, I knew that it was time to jet that joint lest I see the dancing, snuggling, necking, petting, and conception of yet another sibling.
My parents had an extremely large collection of their “real music” and I was subjected to it at such a regular basis that I might as well have been raised at Arnold’s. Except there was no cool guy like The Fonz there to teach me how to score on chicks. I knew every song from the golden age of rock and roll and who sung it. I could, and did, sing along to every one of those K-Tel and Ronco Records Presents ads. Buddy Holly, Chubby Checker, Elvis the King, and the older stuff like Patti Paige and Jerry Vail. Let’s not even get into Glenn Miller and Spike and his orchestra. I’m having wicked flashbacks that would rival those of any Vietnam vet. ( Collapse )