Workin at a P'ro Sho'p (pronounced pussy)

          Yesterday, Ginny's post clarified (for me) that she's not the author of this month-long-song-o-rama.  For days, I've colored outside the lines as well as fabricated a few more interesting (for me) titles.  When I, naïvely, thought they were her titles, I bit my tongue; I like Ginny.  Now that it's just a stupid meme, I have no compunction expressing scorn for unimaginative titles written by an early-adolescent girl.

          I committed to a month.  I still want to prove—to myself—I can do it, and I enjoy not only the memory mining but where my creative juices lead (like, an artwork's back-story, a new poem, or a parenting theory) so for the final two weeks, if I decide to fabricate my own title I'll include the insipid child's title (appropriately struck) only if it begs comment; as it does today, a song that is a guilty pleasure.

          If an immature stranger were to criticize my playlist (and I can't imagine a situation, but, going with the premise) I would be unaffected.  No friends would do it.  A new acquaintance would become a stranger.  The concept that someone experiences an emotion they label "guilty pleasure" is foreign to me.  I don't do things on purpose that make me feel guilty.  There are things which make me feel sated, angry, content, tired, excited, sad, scared, and—occasionally even—bored.  Never guilty.  That title was written by a twelve year old who still gets her hand caught in the cookie jar and slapped by her mommy.

          My title today:  A Song Which Reminds You of a Sport or Job.


          My first full-time employment was a 1974 summer job at Mississinewa Country Club.  I worked in the Pro Shop collecting greens fees, renting carts, selling golf equipment and listening to the radio.  I rode to and from work on my ten-speed (which had a radio mounted on its handlebars).  Late that summer they hired the recently-graduated highschool senior class president.  Mister Charisma.  Mister Popular.  Mister Charm.  I was asked to train him.  Me.  The dorky boyscout who liked to squeeze in a free 9-holes after shift when there was enough daylight.

          One day our shifts overlapped.  He joked around.  I got the impression he might not look down on me any more than any graduate disdained anyone who just had a learner's permit.  Led Zeppelin's new song D'yer Mak'er came on.  (LEARNED TODAY:  the title is pronounced like saying the country Jamaica with an accent...Dje-May-ka.)

          He began to gyrate.  He humped the door jam.  He replaced some lyrics with other, funnier, ones.  It was hilarious.  Then he said, "My friend's coming to pick me up.  Wanna ride?  It looks like it might rain.  You could put yer bike in the trunk."

          I accepted.  And then tried to politely decline when his friend arrived driving an MG.

          "No biggy.  Sit in my lap."  He said.

          I sheepishly accepted.  Once on his lap, head crammed into the roof, zipping down the county road, he put the 8-track on, turned it to D'yer Mak'er, and began to grind again.  His hands on my hips.  "Oh Veach, you're so tight.  Just relax into it."  And the jokes went on and on for half the trip.

          "Ok.  Very funny.  I'm used to being picked on."  I said.

          Although he giggle-apologized and claimed it was "all innocent fun" I realized he and his friend got much more of a kick out of the comments and actions than would be normal, and it dawned on naïve little highschool-sophomore me:  Mister Popular was gay.

          Not that there's anything wrong with that.

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