Pop Culture Petri Dish

Damn, was the party weak. The swinger's pad sported beige walls and even more beige sounds. Everyone lolled around the bland rooms, sucking on fancy drinks and huffing cocaine like Hoover vacuums, and the soundtrack to the party was buffed to a tiresome, glossy sheen. Rock and roll had feathered its hair, bought itself some quaint matching furniture, and had moved way uptown. The Conceited Jackass Party that comprised the first half of the seventies was like that. Suddenly the roar of a loud, unmuffler'ed car engine impeded on--then entirely drowned out--the genteel tinkle of expensive cocktail glasses and the inane whirr of Me-Generation small talk. A rusted-up ghost ship of a Cadillac--all fins, oxidation, exhaust plumes filling the air like brimstone byproduct, and deafening growls--ground its way from the street into the immaculately coiffed lawn outside the pad. The front doors of the ride popped open, and two figures emerged amidst the off-white smoke. Some kind of Va-Voo...

If you don't want to hear blather about my life outside the pop-culture-appreciation firmament, feel free to skip to the sixth paragraph or so: I won't be offended. Sorry so silent for so long. Sure, the 'day job' eroded many of my January evenings and weekends like so much hydrochloric acid to the kisser, but much of the last month also saw the missus and I in an epic drama involving our dog's health. Disco contracted a major kidney infection in late December, and for a few weeks she hovered closer to checking out than she ever has. Thankfully we brought her back to fighting trim with a lot of lost sleep and funds, aggressive treatment with antibiotics, and our sheer willpower (knock wood). Rita's and my current running gag around the house? Including provisions for care of our happy and insanely-spry near-sixteen-year old dog in each of our respective wills. I've also been experiencing a bit of a paradigm shift on a personal level lately. I'm fortunate...