When Ignorance Met Bliss

I was thinking back on all the shit that used to pass for normal back in the day. The sweet spot I speak of existed for yours truly from the pre-Watergate era all the way through the Reagan administration, whose second term may have been the inspiration for Weekend at Bernie’s. I ain’t sure.

In our defense, it’s not like we were looking for trouble, we were simply courting it earnestly. Ours was a world where beloved films such as The Wizard of Oz used asbestos for the snow scenes. No worries, since our parents and their parents before them were using the stuff to dress up their Christmas trees.

The worst that could happen? Oh, we lived that . . . .

I never supped on a speedball but I did take part in an extra-curricular activity that was equally life threatening. I’m old enough to remember hanging out at the Golden Arches and tossing back burgers, fries and sugary drinks while chasing those bad ideas with another; Cigarettes! Adults found our adolescent frolicking acceptable since it meant we weren’t spray painting buses or stealing cars. The fact that we were spelunking our way to heart disease and emphysema never occurred to us because the doctors who would let us in on the joke decades later were doing the exact same shit! As for the ashtrays Mickey D’s supplied, this amber beauty must have come from one of the cushier joints because alls we got were the embossed aluminum jobs. Oh well, we didn’t concern ourselves with the aesthetics anyhow.

It wasn’t all that long ago that a loud and ornery minority of the population were fighting for their bodily autonomy against a repressive government they felt was usurping their right to be unsafe. No, I’m not talking about masks, you silly kids. There was a mini-revolt when seatbelts became a thing, and I was a young revolutionary. Mind you , I was also five years old and in dire need of some fun. I loved riding shotgun as my mother hurtled down the highway like the female version of Steve McQueen in our old Chevy Impala. There I was, all three-foot-six inches of me playing it fast and loose as I counted billboards and hummed along to Beatles songs. A head on collision would’ve deposited me into the murky depths of a Yonkers pothole; transforming me into a half-assed patch job (literally) that would’ve spared the road workers the hassle of filling it in. Dangerous as all get out? Yes. Worth it? Hell yes. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the jaunts we would take when I got a little older, a half dozen kids packed into the backseat like smuggled wildebeests. Today it would result in a stiff fine but back then? It was called the weekend.

When I was in elementary school, I could’ve written a report on the practice of corporal punishment. I would’ve argued that such behavior was reprehensible and worse. Of course, my opinion would’ve been colored by the numerous times I met the business end of a map pointer or wooden paddle as the result of various misbehaviors. One particular lowlight of my career as a juvenile delinquent in training included having a map pointer broken over my ass by a pissed off nun after I flirted with our music teacher. And then there was Mr. Stewart, the principal at Silverside Elementary in Wilmington, Delaware. I was usually one of the grim faced suspects who formed a line outside his office, waiting for an advocate that would never appear. A varnished oak paddle awaited us on the other side of a closed door, because Mr. Stewart was equal parts educator and sadist. Believe it or not, corporal punishment is still practiced in 12 states. I’m guessing Mr. Stewart is looking up with an evil grin on his face over that fact.

When I was seven years old, I wanted to be Evel Knievel. Minus all the broken bones and domestic notoriety to which I was blissfully ignorant, of course. The larger than life superstar was one of the first to merge the world of sports highlight shows with celebrity entertainment. His stunts were appointment television and for this impressionable young chap, I was duly inspired to simulate my hero. This need to bleed wasn’t discouraged by the older folks either, nope. In fact, they were an integral part of my audience whenever I put on a show. With their drinks in hand they would cheer me on as a collection of little lovelies dressed in curls turned applause into a Karen Carpenter song. I would vault over a thin wooden plank on my dirt bike with my eyes closed and hope for the best. The adults alcohol infused reviews equaled credibility and helped me grow a fan base.

It’s a mystery how I didn’t go into politics.

Iggy Pop- Gimme Danger