posted on Feb, 3 2012 @ 04:34 AM
I was still in diapers sitting in a play pen in the middle of the living room while my mother stood and watched in horror as Walter Cronkite announced
that JFK had just been shot.
I had no idea, at that time, that Janis, Jimi, John Paul, George and Ringo existed. Had no idea who Bob Dylan was, and certainly not the Rolling
Stones, and while my parents may have known who these guys were, they were still more concerned with what Frank, Dean, and Sammy were doing, and maybe
to some degree, Elvis.
My father with his Buddy Holly glasses, and my mother with her Jackie Kennedy hairdo, political turmoil, wars, protests, and love-ins were not their
thing and certainly not mine. I was more concerned with eating Quaker Oats oatmeal, mainly because that Quaker Oats guy for some reason reminded me
of Captain Kangaroo, but of course, I really wanted Coco Puffs because Just like Sonny the Cuckoo, I was "cuckoo for Coco Puffs".
I must have begged for an endless amount of Christmases for a GI-Joe, and can still feel the sting of betrayal when one Christmas my sister gets her
first Barbie, me still without any GI-Joe. I suppose my mother was probably more aware of the war protest movement at that time than I could
reasonably understand. Whatever. It was only a matter of time before I outgrew the need for silly dolls, even if they were kick-ass GI-Joe's and
started asking for Hot Wheels, and for an endless amount of new Christmases I begged and begged for Hot Wheels.
Be careful what you wish for because you will surely get it. One Christmas, I finally got my Hot Wheels track. I had bought my mother a Redbook
magazine for Christmas that year, my father an Automotive Mechanics magazine, and bought my brother a Slinky and my sister some Silly Putty. I opened
my Hot Wheels and for months after lived in self contented joy. Prior to the Hot Wheels and the cool orange plastic tracks that snapped together to
make an oval race track, my mother, whenever I drove her to the point of insanity, used her hair brush to smack my little ass. These weren't the Jay
Sebring hair brushes that would come later. The brush my mother was using was far more harsh and cold hearted than the kinder gentler brushes of
Sebring. Then my mother discovered the pure simplicity of the Hot Wheel track, and who couldn't appreciate the whiplash sting of those bright orange
tracks that would draw a welt but leave no bruises? Thank God for the Whirlybird. My mother wouldn't even have dared smack me on the ass with
By the '70's I am really growing up, and while I still eat prefer cold cereal for breakfast, I really prefer Life Cereal, and not just because Mikey
liked it, but because I liked it. Captain Kangaroo was no longer my thing, but I had a soft spot for H.R. Puffenstuff, and the Banana Splits and
loved to go running around the house screaming "Uh-Oh Chongo!", and wishing that when I grow up that I could be cool like Jan Micheal Vincent. I
really loved those animated super heroes shows, like the Fantastic Four, and Super Friends.
During the Sixties, I really didn't much care for Disney. Bambi had scared the crap out of me, and Fantasia had its really creepy moments, and I
just didn't get these "children" shows, but by the Seventies Disney was putting out what I felt were far friendlier films like Flubber, Son of
Flubber, The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes, and The World's Greatest Athlete with Jan Micheal Vincent. My brother, my friends and I would collect our
milk cartons and redeem them at the local movie theater on Saturday afternoons to get in for free to watch these movies.
Concessions at movie theaters were always absurdly priced for as far back as I can remember, and while we may have been kids we were no fools. So, we
would hike up to Montgomery Ward - "Monkey Ward" - to each purchase a can of Shasta cola and a small bag of Doritos for the genuine value of just
one quarter, sometimes splurging another quarter for Milk Duds or Reeces Peanut Butter Cups. The Golden Voyage of Sinbad! Best Saturday milk carton
Somewhere in the middle of these '70's was when I first heard The Rolling Stones I Can't Get No Satisfaction and Oh My God! It's not like at that
very moment all the innocence of a child running towards the brink of precipice totally oblivious of the dark abyss that awaited vanished, and yet,
somehow that was the moment that H.R. Puffenstuff was for little children, the Monkees were clearly posers, and even if I still couldn't find the
will to walk away from Sesame Street whenever I was stupid enough to watch it - I still can't to this day, I swear I will turn it off, or change the
channel after the next skit, and then there I am still watching up until the end - it is not like I would ever admit that then. I was too cool. Too
cool for Spiderman and Batman. Too cool for The Hulk lunch boxes, and pretty damn cool for discovering The Boss long before he put out Dancing in the