Seventeen years ago tonight, I was on the radio for the first time. I vaguely remember that the music I played included “Mesopotamia” by the B-52s, “From the Air” by Laurie Anderson, and “Love Steet” by the Doors. And there was this public service announcement for the Runaway Hotline which started “cold out here…dark too…”, which became sort of a running gag among my friends and family for years.
Actually, it’s still a running gag among some of us, especially my Dad.
That was a great summer. I met some of the people who remain among my closet friends to this day, including Duncan and Carroll. My taste in music moved more from the 1960s and 1970s into the 1980s.
In honor of the occasion, I spent last night helping give birth to a bouncing baby website for the Swingin’ Utters. Punk rock sure has changed. Friday night used to mean going out and getting plastered while slowly developing tinnitis. Now it means sitting in an apartment in Lower Haight with Mom, Dad, and the cutest baby in the world working on the website.
Oddly enough, I have no major objection to this change…
What I have objections to this morning is the way that Southwest Airlines is fucking over my friend Scott who was scheduled to arrive from Detroit at 1:00. It’s noon now. He’s still in Detroit. His itinerary has been changed four times and they STILL can’t tell him when he’ll be leaving (or when or where he’ll be arriving). This is why I never fly, except in emergencies. Airlines in general suck and couldn’t give a rat’s ass about customer service.
Off to the laundromat now, as I seem to have an extra day to kill…
