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A spiraling cluster of news & events from distant decades

The Roadhead Chronicles

By Mike Marino

Sample Chapter: Where Cool Was Born

Page 4 of 8

...meanwhile, back in the States. The Pez and Hula hoop generation was embracing this new music like a long lost lover. It was, and still is, the three chord trinity Holy Grail. We told Laura we loved her, and gave her one last kiss, as she smiled sweetly and took her last breath in our arms amidst the twisted and tangled metal wreckage, once a car, now unrecognizable. Our teen angel was gone, dead, zero to 60 in 14 seconds. Thank God the car was insured! However, amidst all the angst and the anger, Danny and the Juniors still had a positive outlook and invited us all to the Hop to dance the night away and forget our cares and woes.

As the AM Radio got louder and louder, the night got darker and darker, until it was so dark, deep dark, deep blue/black dark, that pure magic happened. The sun would set in a fireball glory of blaze orange, and the silver screen fired up the night like a roman candle. Damned, if it wasn't time once gain for another big screen, teen screamin' Saturday night in Teenage America!! You had your best girl, the price of admission and your own certified, bona fide, and modified pleasure wagon mo-sheen, complete with a trunk full of hidden treasure, that included beer and buddies, tucked away and hidden to cheat the gate. The celluloid migration was underway as the cars lined up, getting their ticket to paradise. Then once inside, the angling, the search for the perfect slightly tilted angle and the best speaker you could find. "Yeah, right here. This looks good, this is the spot." Then you slowly move into position, a cruise ship coming into port with a load of passport visitors. Finally berthed, the drive-in was the one place that you had all to yourself. Along with hundreds of others, who also had the place to themselves.

It was a time and a place of intense rivalry between the Leather Jackets and the Letter Jackets, Grease vs.Jock, that shared a common Saturday goal of getting to first base any way they could. The thrill of victory, the wolfman howl of delight as the figure hugging forces of the mighty bra were defeated at the gates of lingerie Jericho. The winning armies staring in awe and amazement at the treasures within, dumbstruck, staring upwards from the base of the sexual mountain, gazing at pristine peaks to rival the Rockies. Formidable, stately and majestic. Revered. Eureka!! You made it to Magic Mountain and you were confident that you were the freakin' Lewis and Clark of the back seat corps of discovery.


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