Sometimes my best—or at least what I consider my best— writing ideas come to me when I'm laying in bed wide awake at 4 am, so I jot them down on my phone's notepad for further consideration when I'm actually in a position to sit and write.
One of those ideas was "The summer of '84." I was 26 and young, dumb, and full of…exuberance. It was a great summer filled of friends, unforgettable music, a lot of sex, and as it wound down, enough drama to last a lifetime.
I sat down yesterday to give it a go, and after several hours I read through the tome and thought, "This is rubbish. No one is going to care about any of this." I realized what may have been important to me and my need to share it all in minute detail may not be at all interesting to anyone else.
Except maybe the music. There was Madonna and her sophomore release Like a Virgin, but also The Thompson Twins, Cyndi Lauper, Laura Branigan, Prince, The Pointer Sisters, Lime, Quarterflash, Pat Benatar, Simple Minds, and dance-oriented one (or two) hit wonders like Paul Parker, Animotion, The Twins, Waterfront Home, Talk Talk, Lisa, and dozens more.
https://youtu.be/9dmTbLI5mA4
All I have to do is hear any of these songs and I'm transported back to my little top floor apartment at Crestwood and it all comes flooding back to me: my first brand new car, the architectural studio where I worked, Sunday afternoon Beer Busts at The Connection, cruising ASU, buying my first hifi cassette deck (I was a late bloomer), my friend John Fortenberry and one piece of advice he imparted that stayed with me for years ("Don't yell 'Baby' out the car window at hot guys. It's rude. Yell 'DADDY!'"), Jim, Jack, Brett—none of whom are still with us—and of course Frank—an ASU boy who ended up moving in with me and served more drama than I'd ever experienced.
It looks like I just wrote about the summer of '84 after all—and hopefully without boring anyone to death.