So now that the lovely Mrs. Wisdom is out of town for a few days — visiting kin in Utah — I’m free to go hog wild ’round the old homestead. Which — my being a suburbanesque, consumerist white guy and all — means blasting some old Marshall Tucker Band, munching sourdough pretzels (dipped in a piquant Chile Tepin salsa), and watching political thrillers from the 70s (are there any others worth watching?).
On today’s menu: Jon Voight in The Odessa File. With bourbon rocks. Then later, after a big bowl of curry and a bottle of San Angelo Pinot Grigio, I’ll humiliate myself in front of the dogs by singing along (loudly) to Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street.”
By midnight, I imagine I’ll be nipping at the tequilla and playing air drums to The Church and Modern English.
It doesn’t take much to amuse me. I’m a simple man, honest.
[update: And speaking of the eighties (I was too: see above, esp. The Church, Modern English), Andrew Northrup takes a look back himself at the decade of the Electric Boogaloo. Note: What he doesn’t mention anywhere in his critique of eighties fashion is the fingerless, black leather driving gloves look — complete with Guess jeans, oversized puffy white pirate shirt, long black wool overcoat, and Capezios. With a gold hoop earring and a John Taylor-esque blond streak through my hair.
And by my hair, I mean the hair, of course…]
You probably won’t do this, but how about a photo essay of the wild’n’wooly night?
And how did such a young guy get such a nostalgic streak? Marshall Tucker was my generation, for pete’s sake. Don’t yall like technotrancerave stuff.
Photographic evidence is a no-no (I’m thinking of running for fucking office, you see).
When I was a little kid, the older kids in my neighborhood would play that stuff. I’d also hear it all the time on the jukebox at the swim club my mom used to drag us kids to. I didn’t rediscover it until maybe 8 years back, when I couldn’t get a Bellamy Brothers song out of my head. Once I opened the flood gates, there was no turning back…
[Can’t you see? Can’t you see? What that woman, Lord…She been doin’ to me…?]
Sheesh, Goldstein! You’ll be fahtin’!
P.S. Regarding 80’s attire, don’t forget the (gag) Members Only jacket coupled with Zodiac shoes.
*psst*back then, with Zodiacs, you could get away without having to switch shoes at the Bowling Alley.
P.S.S. The following statement, from the previous comment on July 26, 2002 11:41 AM, is meant to be stated in a hard Brooklyn accent: You’ll be fahtin’!
Political office? Your opponent is going to have a field day with your archives. Or maybe you intend to stash those at Blogspot where they will be safe from prying eyes.
No 80’s fashion retrospective is complete without some mention of parachute pants. At the time, I was sad that my parents never got me a pair. Now, I am forever in their debt for sparing me the searing embarassment that memory would have been.
Dude, I love my memories of parachute pants. My trim little 8th grade body looked HOT in those. I was STYLIN’.
The 80’s always bring back memories of the gals with their hair feathered back and their extra wide belts, looped at an angle around their waists. Dang those things were hard to get off while scrunched into the front passenger seat of a 1986 Toyota Celica…..