Nostalgia: is that Freedom Rock?

I watched endless hours of television. I’m not allowed one anymore. I miss it so. I used to watch cartoons that bled into reruns of family situation comedies that ran into adult sitcoms. Transformers became Silver Spoons, then Three’s Company and Bosom Buddies came on. The commercials changed accordingly, from the things that kids could be brainwashed into nagging adults endlessly for to the things burnouts watching television at five in the afternoon would be tempted by. Yes, there were a lot of “call now to order!” commercials on television, with COD options. Because smoked out, jobless, washed-up thirty- to fortysomethings [a.k.a. Sheldon, my after school day care provider’s adult son] might just use the phone and steal their mothers’ checkbooks when the package arrived from the mailman. The other package. He didn’t take anything but cash for weed. These are really the people who were waiting for the internet, they just didn’t know it yet.*

Freedom Rock.

I still remember this man’s voice more than anything else.

Piano Hits ’84.

I wish I could give this to everyone for Xmas. Not Christmas–it’s too smooth for so many letters. In 8-track, fools. I believe in analog formats.

Zamfir and His Magic Pan Flute

Oh yeah, I busted out Zamfir, my dunnies!

Solid Gold Soul: Superbad

TimeLife, you don’t disappoint with your Blaxploitation flicks! Thanks for the stereotyping!

Power Rock

You know, if this were an iTunes playlist that were suggested to me, I might just buy it. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about the shithole where I always heard “Cat Scratch Fever” and “Stairway to Heaven” on karaoke night at least three times each.–No. I just wrote it and it was boring.

*ON BURNOUTS. Please note that I am trying to be a grad student soon and then a writer, and I may just be one of these people soon. Also note that I’d do anything, anything, anything to be one of them now if I didn’t have to live with my own mother. Can I stay with yours? Ask her for me. Or let’s find me a husband. One who’ll let me do jack shit, as far as working is concerned. I mean, I’ll breed and give bjs and cook and shit, but we might need a maid. They exist, don’t they? They have to. Clap if you believe in husbands who let Smicks watch TV and loll all day. Clap! For god’s sakes, clap the skin off your palms, clap them bloody, people. Shit.


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