Marketing men latched onto this phenomenon, and soon GM was making 31 flavors of cars and TV was making 31 flavors of shows.
Soon, there were 31 chemically scented shampoos, and a million ways to order coffee. I went to have a cup of tea this morning and ran across something called "Passion -- herbal infusion, a magical blend of hibiscus, lemon grass, rose hips, mango and passion fruit flavors."
"Don't we," I asked Posh, "just have plain tea?"
"Were you going to paint the porch?" she asked, in some sort of chores-for-tea extortion.
Dying is easy. Marriage is hard.
Soon, I was in the hardware store picking out paint, pretending to do chores. Now I am in this lawn chair on a Sunday night, butt a little sore from dipping/painting/dipping. At 50, my bones seem made of wicker. There are traces of Pillow Talk in my cuticles.
"I feel good. . . . I knew that I would now," the band sings.
I love a good boomer band -- the shades, the sandals, the Lipitor. Every boomer band is about the same, with a drummer who looks like he has a Harley in the garage that he never rides anymore. If you carbon-dated all the boomer band drummers in the U.S., they'd average about 250 years old.
"Here she comes now, say, Mony, Mony . . ."
I was once a horn player in a raggedy rock band, back in the days when bands had horn players. It was the '70s, so we played "Colour My World" and "Black Magic Woman" over and over, like a broken jukebox. To hear a suburban kid sing "Black Magic Woman" is to understand the vagaries of life and love like never before.
Made a fortune, this band. Basically, we'd hold our audiences hostage, refusing to let them flee until they paid us. One time, while rehearsing in my parents' basement, the guitarist played a chord so bad it vaporized the furnace.
"Born to be wiiiiiiii . . . iiiiiiiii . . . llll . . . d," the band plays.
That's me, all right. Barefoot in the park, born to be wild . . . smelling of mineral spirits and beer.
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chris.erskine@latimes.com
