radio ga-ga


You know one thing my daughters will never experience? Waiting for a song on the radio. When I was 8 years old, I listened to Chicago‘s WLS-AM back when AM radio played top 40 songs. During the summer my friends and I played the radio and screamed when Shaun Cassidy sang.


We pictured him with his shirt open to his navel waving his tight-panted butt at the mic. Though at that time we didn’t realize how incredibly gay that looked.

There we sat in our bathing suits from swimming in an above-ground unheated pool, eating bologna sandwiches sitting on a shag carpet and as soon as the DJ Larry Lujack announced “Da Doo Run Run,” we jumped up on the bed and screamed. Then my mom rushed in thinking we just broke our arms.

We also held our tape recorders up to the radio if we ever wanted to hear songs again. Now stuff is just downloaded to an iPod. Where’s the fun in that?

Maybe I sound like a grumpy old man. I’m sure I’ll have a lot of “back in my day” stories for them the moment they complain about their dead iPod battery or if the Internet is down. And those stories will probably include walking uphill both ways in the snow.

I think I’ll just wax nostalgia and listen to Queen’s “Radio Ga-Ga.” On my iPod, of course.




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