Saturday, August 25, 2012


Summer 1980, southern California, dancing in the middle of a pavilion at Magic Mountain.

Rock Lobster by the B-52s plays.

At one point in the song, every single person lays down on the floor wriggling like they are slices of bacon frying in a pan. Every single person, that is, except me.

I just stand there turning around and around staring at them all, realizing that I was culturally clueless.

Or maybe California is just ahead of Massachusetts with that kind of thing.

Or maybe I was just clueless.

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