Roger’s Posterous

So here’s the deal, I’m flying down the freeway in good old southern California. Los Angeles, to be exact.

Radio blasting. Car shooting down the 101, in a southerly direction when on one of my favorite songs comes on the radio.

I hear that familiar lick of the guitar. Bong, bong booooooooong. Bong, bong booooooooong. I crank the music up a couple more notches. Yeah, we’re at 24 on the dial at least. Gotta happen. This song is worthy.

And then, in comes the rat-tat-tat of the drum. “Ooooooh, Yeah…..” I grin to my friend with a knowing smile. The pulse of the music is making my butt jump around in the drivers seat. Crap these fricking seatbelts, hampering my girating pelvis. That, and the Spanx that are holding my lame ass entact.

I look to the left… I look to the right… no cops… YEAH, BABY! Just me and my friend in the two seats of my silver convertible. 350Z’s were born for songs like THIS, man!

So, I continue to jump around in my seat. Butt muscles wiggling to the sound of that snare drum. One of my favorite songs is coming on. I know it’s coming. I know the intro. I’ve been singing this song since 1973. Yeah, you know it, too, baby, even though half of you that are reading this blinkin’ blog weren’t even born yet…

And, we have that Rock N’ Roll down, now don’t we? And, as Austin Powers would, “Oh, yeeeeeaah, ba-baaay!”

So, the music kicks in full gear, on this, one of the most famous driving songs known to modern man.

Yeah, shake it baby. I look at my friend. She gets it, too. We are now a pulsating mass of dyed hair, cellulite, and prescription lenses. Hey, turning 40 does have a couple price-tags, right?

We start screaming the lyrics at the top of our non-tweeny-bopper lungs (thank you very much), and it finally ambles it’s around to the chorus, of which I have now missed my last three exits due to my “head-banging” and getting my hair stuck in my goopy lipstick — “But, hey, Baby, this is rock and roll! Screw the lipstick.” So, what that it’s dragged Revlon Red streaks half way across my face. “Yeah, man! Get outta my Goddamn way, asshole — Move your frickin’ Pinto, man! I’ve got a song to sing!”

Then, I start scream-singing the chorus. Man, I want everyone to hear me. “We’ve got a thing, that’s a called, Red-Hot Love! We’ve gotta wave our hands in the air! RED-HOT LOVE!” Then I pretend that my butt is playing the bongo interim and then I sing with sexy heat to my friend, “Red-Hot Love…”

Butt, a-shaking.

Whewwwwwww. The air in my hair.

Yeah. Nice. Still got the old tubes, man. Belting out that song. People turning even though the roar of the freeway tries to drown us out…

But, curiously, I look at my friend that is now just sitting there looking at me…

– No butt bouncing

– No head banging

– No scream-singing.

Just staring.

At me.

“What, man? This is Red-Hot Love — Sing it, man! Aaaaaah!” Once again, I break into, “Red-Hot Love.” My knees are bouncing in time with the beat. The car jerking fast-slow-fast-slow with the tempo of this Hard Rock candy. Sweet-Sweet.

She looks at me and turns the radio down. Very serious. I look at her like she has just desecrated the Virgin Mary. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THIS IS RED-HOT LOVE, GIRL! YOU GOT A SCREW LOOSE? TURN THAT RADIO BACK UP!”

“What are you singing?” She yells at me.

“Red Hot Love, Goddammit. What the hell?”

“It’s called, Radar Love.”

“What? Yeah, that’s what I said, Red-Hot Love.”

“No, Girl. It’s RADAR love.”

“Huh?”

“R-A-D-A-R Love.”

“What? SHUT-UP! No man, don’t you mess with my Red-Hot Love, man. People have died for less, man.”

“Seriously. RADAR LOVE. Golden Earring. RADAR Love.”

“What? Don’t start messing with me. I can pull over this car, you know. . .”

“HELLO? RADAR LOVE. GOLDEN EARRING. LOOK AT THE GODDAMN RADIO.”

So, the invention of satellite radio has now confirmed what will be a haunting mind-crash for the next several moments. “What? Do my eyes deceive me? Does my radio actually have the read-out — RADAR LOVE GOLDEN EARRING.

“WHAT?”

Quietly, almost afraid to tell me. “Yes. It’s Radar Love.”

“Since when?”

“Since when? Since forever!” She looks at me, like dumb-shit.

How many years have I been singing the wrong lyrics to this song?

Let’s face it, even the best of us were out on the dance floor at the local drain station, at the disco scream-singing the wrong lyrics with all the other Travolta wannabes, while we groove on our way to a liquored frenzy.

I hate to admit it, that even I, yes, Moi, may have even sang a wrong lyric or two. Ah, hell, I can’t even tell you how many hundreds (thousands) of times I was screaming RED-HOT LOVE at the top of my voice, to find out (only a mere three decades later-Ouch!) that my rendition of a Red-Hot Love, along with other lyrics of my own making, turned out to be Radar Love.

RADAR Love?

Radar Love? What the hell kind of lyric is that?

Radar Love? Hello? That’s the stinking title, too? What?

I wish I could tell you that I am embarrassed and that I regret all of my renditions of Red-Hot Love, A.K.A. Radar Love, but give me a Goddamn freaking break.

But no, I am not embarrassed.

Frankly, I think the idiot came up with Radar Love(?), should have had the sense and forethought to know what a great and enduring freaking song that was going to turn out to be, and have the Goddamn common sense to name it appropriately — Red-Hot Love.

RED-HOT LOVE.

Calm down. Take it down a notch. Okay, Red-Hot Love.

Now that’s a Goddamned song title, right? Give a girl a break.

They still play that song from time to time, and rightly so, because it’s an unbelievably great dancing song. And I am going to tell you that I have no intention of changing my lyrics to FRICKIN’ RADAR LOVE. I mean, RED-HOT LOVE.

Dang it, you’ve got me worked up here.

Radar love? That’s laughable.

Yes, I have been… and will continue… to enjoy my gyrating pelvic thrust to the now, and continued yelled title, appropriately now and forevermore named RED-HOT LOVE.

And, I will continue to convert anyone within a 99 dB radius, including my gal pals on Chick Trips to Palm Springs, Vegas, Mammoth, the Caymans, and beyond. Yes, I will continue to scream-spreading the word RED-HOT LOVE.

It’s red-hot love, Goddammit… the end… period.

The fricking end.

Forever yours,

In RED-HOT LOVE,

(Oh, and by the way, don’t even get me started on the name of the band… Golden earring? Hello? That’s about as profound as the “Baked SweetPotatoes.” UGH. Golden earring?)

Holy crap.

Well, I guess, we need to show them a little Red-Hot Love.

Be well Dahhhhlings,

Belle