You feel ancient – you ARE ancient. Never thought you’d lose your hair – never thought you’d gain 90 pounds – never thought you’d forget names.
Never thought you’d stop smoking – never thought about your Liver – never thought you’d become a ghost – never thought the love of your life would be a grandmother – never thought the love of your life would look at you like a traffic signal.
The daughters of the girls you dated look at you strangely when you realize they look exactly like the girls you dated in 1975. It’s not them, it’s the memories they were assigned to – they have no idea but you do and you catch yourself staring holes and drifting back.
Your classmates are rounder – your classmates are chiseled and augmented (the ones who can afford it) – cleavage is an obligation – Viagra is a requirement.
After an hour of “pretend” the lights dim and suddenly all cats look grey in the dark.
Your memory snaps back when someone yells “Tequila Sunrise!” and you know it doesn’t mean The Eagles. The bar is jammed to capacity and the babes emerge quickly followed by all the Steven Studlies while the room is awash with Tequila, Grenadine and orange juice.
By Sunrise Number 3 you’re reminded of all the things you wanted to say but were too much of a wimp to say at the time – and the eyes light up.
Those electric shocks you feel at the base of your spine are coming from elegantly manicured nails, running up and down your back.
You turn and come face to face with Class of 1975’s Meanest Girl On Earth – she hated you for no reason – she once tripped you in the hallway.
She’s transformed into a hottie – in the dim light she bears an uncanny resemblance to your biggest crush of the 70s; Victoria Principal – visions of Dallas and college dorms all over again and your futile search for a faithful replica years after.
1975 became a whole lot better than you originally thought.
As the night wore on and the music got louder it became a love fest – 500 drunks, all in one ballroom – old-grudge fights broke out – adventures under the banquet tables – people yelling like they’ve seen ghosts. The kids and the grandkids having left hours earlier and the ones who were always uptight quietly made exits, shaking their heads and appreciated hitting 70.
Only you and the hundred or so left who had stumbled into the proverbial Fountain of Youth were busy making up for lost time and giving reality the finger until the Hotel cut the power to the P.A. off – by then everything was in automatic and it got fuzzy.
It wasn’t until sometime the next afternoon, after checkout time, that you slowly managed to force one eye at a time open. Following the sun as it made its way straight to your face in a molten ball of wakeup. Mouth tasted like an acid-pit. Words beyond horrible were useless to explain yourself. You knew your breath was going to melt steel-reinforced concrete.
As you quietly lay there, trying to get your head to stop alternately spinning and splitting, a very loud and very musical fart billowed up from under the blanket.
The resulting odor was enough to peel the paint off every building in Santa Monica for two square miles.
Coming in the direction of the sensory culprit you saw what appeared to be a head, with blotchy patches of dyed hair and extensions strewn all over the pillow next to you.
It was when the head turned to face you that the cold, harsh realities of life in 2025 came crashing down on you.
Makeup run amok, red bloodshot eyes, skin like a grey Pizza, a festival of flesh that didn’t know where to end and was in desperate need of sunlight. Hair, what was left of it and not part of the sheets was grey and matted. Meanest Girl on Earth-turned Victoria Principal-turned Freddy Krueger with tits.
She let out an ear-piercing scream, wrapping herself in the blanket she was under and staggered off to the bathroom.
Leaving you laying naked on top of the bed, looking down at your own little horror story; “little” being the operative word – too mortified to consider how hungover you were, wondering if there was sex involved and how was that possible.
Staggering out of bed amid a minefield of shoes, body shapers, girdles, your stained shorts – everything you swore up and down you’d never be caught dead being involved in.
All laying in one place – all looking apologetic that they, just this once, let you both down big time.
You managed to put clothes on and wait for your parallel universe dream-date to emerge from the bathroom – there was lots of explaining to do.
While you were figuring what to say you found the thumb drive they handed out in reception that had a full hour of “The Obscene Steven Clean” from KMET – 1975 to listen to.
And you kept thinking it was true; you can never go back – even if you tried.
Here’s an hour’s worth of KMET in 1975 to remind you.
