I went to high school in a ‘dry’ county, meaning no alcohol was sold EVER due to religious reasons. The Bible Belt was so tight on the waist of the South, any notion of pleasure was looked at as the Devil’s work. Apparently drinking alcohol in Scotland County NC would send you straight to the front gate of Hell. Fortunately, the South Carolina state line was about 4 miles away and behind that line was a liquor store more than willing to sell to us sinners and minors.
When the weather was warm, we’d grab a few six packs of little Mickeys and baby Malt Ducks and head to a cornfield and rock out on AC/DC, Van Halen, and Journey. There were few options in this tiny town. We had already gone through the drive-through at McDonald’s. Twice.
All of us girls were clad in our Jordache jeans and Farrah hair, reapplying our Love Potion bubble gum roll-on lip-gloss every few minutes because we couldn’t stop licking it off. The guys wore tight Wranglers and Levis and the smell of their Chaps Musk wafted through the damp air. The Malt Ducks were sweet and welcoming. We swooned when Steve Perry’s voice resonated through giant speakers in the Camaro Z28s and el Caminos. And had no concerns in the world other than making it home by our curfew. We made out under the stars.
My palette has matured from Malt Ducks and little Mickeys and there aren’t too many Camaros dotting the freeways around here. But, given any opportunity, I’ll roll down my windows and blast Journey and I want nothing but an icy cold beer. Here’s to the 1980s, Steve Perry, and riding with boys in pick-ups and hot rods.
~ Believe in love. Believe in magic. Hell, believe in Santa Claus. Believe in others. Believe in yourself. Believe in your dreams. If you don’t, who will? ~
Jon Bon Jovi
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