The Cost of Fun

It’s Friday again, my bloggish friends, and the iPod is at the ready.

What say you, my technological oracle?

Feel Good Inc by Gorillaz
Watchin the Detectives by Elvis Costello
Get Up (Sex Machine) by James Brown
Getting Down by The Kills
D is for Dangerous by Arctic Monkeys
Hem of Your Garment by Cake
Avenue B by Gogol Bordello
Goin Down by The Monkees

Hmmm. I’m sensing a mixed message here.

And yes, the last song, “Goin’ Down” is by The Monkees. THE Monkees. Perhaps one of their coolest songs ever with a screaming trumpet part that I suspect is Al Conti.

I could look it up, of course, but why deny someone the opportunity to prove me wrong?

As has been previously blathered on about, I enjoy a good wink -- a wink and a smile -- and I've been thinking about that since I mentioned Downtown Smiling Man a blog or two back.

Of course, Grandpa winked. And all his farming buddies, the guys who cracked raw eggs in their beer -- they were winkers, too. Mighta had something to do with the raw egg, but no. They were quiet men, Midwestern farming salt-of-the-earth men. The wink was as quiet an affirmation of your presence as their two-fingered "wave" over the steering wheel of the car -- a quick flash of their first two fingers at an oncoming friend. It said "I see you and acknowledge your presence. Let's not make too much of this."

I like that.

But all this wink-thinkin' got me reminiscing about other winks.

When I was 18, I had three jobs. One of them was pumping gas. Best tan of my life. I would French braid my hair and wet it down periodically -- best blonde streaks ever. And was my neck tan? You bet. Not sure what I was going for, but it was my brownest summer ever in a time when tan meant healthy.

I miss those days.

Anyway, gas was right around 90 cents a gallon at that time, and one day, I pumped gas for a roadie for Lynyrd Skynrd.

OK -- he wasn't really a roadie for Lynyrd Skynrd, but he certainly looked like he could've been. He was a tall, lanky man, skin-tight bell-bottom blue jeans, a thin, plaid cotton cowboy shirt with pearl snaps. He had long blonde hair disturbingly like my own and a droopy, Sam-Shepherd-sexy mustache (which looked nothing like mine).

"Two dollars, please," he said.

He wants two dollars' worth of gas? I'm gonna give it to him.

I pumped the gas, put the cap back on, and he handed me a five through the driver door window.

I handed him three dollars change.

"Thank you, darlin'," he drawled. "A couple gallons of gas, and I still got me three bucks for a good time tonight."

He winked at me, grinning, and with a slight nod of his head, he tore out of the station lot.

I'm grinning right now, just thinking about it.



Hope everyone has a good weekend and finds at least three dollars' worth of fun (adjusted for inflation, of course).

Y'all come back now, ya hear?