Socio-Automotive Retardation – How Long Can We Ignore It?

All American males have life-long affairs with cars (so-called auto-eroticism), starting usually in their early teens. Many even transcend the foreplay of driving on to the ecstasy of getting under the hood and seeing how a car really works. It seems to be an established ritual of male evolvement, this affair d'auto, and those few who somehow miss out on it often suffer from a most painfully humiliating condition that might best be described as a sort of socio-automotive retardation.

I, having been raised by a mother and grandmother, neither of whom could drive, am a salient example of a socio-automotive retardate. I didn't learn to drive until I was 19 and didn't get a driver's license till I was 26. This condition never affected my overall social development that much, since most all of my friends had cars, but my relationship to one of the American male's most powerful symbols of virility was scarred permanently. Other than realizing the practicality of having one, and aesthetically preferring Jaguars to Hyundais, to this day I have very little interest in cars.

During my days as a double-dating demon, I was frequently forced to feign interest to avoid the geek label by interjecting a timely "really," when a guy told me he had "two four-barrel carburetors" or "four on the floor." And I was no doubt dangerously close to a state hospital scholarship when I pretended to take long studied looks at other cars we drove. I had noticed that "normal guys" would crane their necks to gawk at certain cars as they were driving. I pitifully never knew the criteria for this long distance scrutinizing, so I had to wait for somebody else's move to cue on. In retrospect, I wonder if any or—Oh, God—all of them were on to me: "Hey, I faked that goofball Bob into starting at a Henry J. today." "That's nothing, I told him I had '15 on the floor' and he said you know what." The group, loudly, "Really!" (Singgering and horse-like guffaws.)

I never did learn to relate to other guys on a socio-automotive level, and fortunately, though, while all my friends were more automotively knowledgeable than I, their interests did not extend to the mechanical level. In fact, we used to make fun of those whom we thought possessed a somewhat excessive interest in this aspect of cars, and I reveled in this ridicule, as it tended to rebuild my crumbling self-esteem. Our favorite form of automotive parody was to drive to a local drive-in restaurant, which was frequented by hot rodder types, pull into a parking space while revving the engine, then jump out of the car, sleeves rolled shoulder-high, sometimes covering a pack of Luckies, open the hood, and commence staring and pointing under it, while making loud exclamations such as, "Oh yeah, she'd loaded!", "Man, this baby can really move!" Naturally, the grand finale of this performance would have been a curiosity inspired visit by some of the car freaks, but fortunately for us this never occurred (perhaps, we smugly thought, because they were too dull-witted to recognize a skillfully acted lampoon when they saw one; but, in retrospect, considering our "drag monster" was a Ford Country Squire station wagon, we were probably the unknown object of a reverse snub.)

My most horrendous socio-automotive trauma—possibly a punishment for the above—was a brief summer (briefer than summer) job as a service station attendant when I was about 17 or 18. When I wasn't stumbling through my menial pumping-gas-checking-under-the-hood-windshield-cleaning duties, I was lunching with my automotive superiors—journeymen mechanics, mechanic's helpers, and professional service station attendants. I may as well have been an Albanian immigrant. The only words I occasionally deciphered were prepositions. The only subject they discussed ("disgust" might be better) other than cars was sex, and specifically, boasting about the most intimate details of their relationships with their wives and girlfriends: "Boy, when I get home tonight, I'm gonna crack some ceiling plaster!" These people gave S&M a bad name. Until then, I hadn't realized that I was a bit retarded in this area too, but that's a whole other article, perhaps even a book.

That was a very confusing and unhappy six weeks for me, and, although I did become quite proficient with a dipstick (Hey, maybe that's why the station owner called me that), my more innate ability of unconsciously collecting people's gas caps leg me to my ultimate dismissal. In the clarity of hindsight, I view this moment in my life as a blown opportunity to achieve socio-automotive normalcy, despite the probable side effect of sexual aberrance.

I have paid emotionally (I experience no orgasmic tingling at the thought of a stock car race or even a 1950 Ford with a Confederate Flag decal) and literally (I am personally responsible for the extraordinary financial success of a number of automotive mechanics and the college education of their offspring) for this developmental flaw. I am, in fact, permanently damaged and beyond rehabilitation; however, it is my unselfish hope that this public admission will give others the courage to come out of the closet, when they see that they are not alone.

With my luck, though, I am probably the only male in America with this problem, and the sole response to my confession will be a hate letter from Peewee Herman, calling me an insufferable wimp and a disgrace to all self-respecting real American nerds.

Nevertheless, I will not be stopped. My draconian years of socio-automotive deprivation have only tempered my resolve to see that other males enjoy the inalienable American rites of auto-eroticism and the secondary benefits thereof.

What is needed, I feel, is a leader, a high profile role model. Someone who can do what Robert Redford is doing for the environment, what Cliff Robertson does for AT&T, what Jim Bakker did to confirm the accuracy of P.T. Barnum's most famous adage. We need someone associated with cars, someone who can get the message across to the fathers of young boys all across this great nation that drives more cars and builds more highways than all the rest of the world combined that while a boy who knows women is a lover, a boy who knows cars is a man.

Richard Petty, Cale Yarborough, all you guys from The Dukes of Hazard, there's the gauntlet.

Music is my life

If a sort of musical "Omnibus" came rolling down King Street one day with quadruple loudspeakers blaring, it would certainly be inappropriate for anyone else other than Worth Waring to be the mobile DJ. However, now that I have paid proper fealty to the expert, perhaps, deference could be made to me on this one occasion, at least on the basis of age. And so it is with this semi-apologetic explanatory prologue that I begin my article on the subject of music from a purely personal and absolutely nonprofessional perspective.

Not unlike most people, I guess, certain songs trigger specific memories for me—most of them good. Whether it emanated from an ancient Victrola, a record player, a jukebox, a radio, a stereo system, a band, a movie, a TV set or a cassette recorder, I seem to have acted out a great portion of my life to the accompaniment of background music.

My earliest memories of it are when I was about 4, and my mother and her sister taught me "Shoo Fly Pie and "I've Got Spurs That Jingle, Jangle, Jingle." They would coax me to recite these tunes in front of their friends, who would feign laughter and remark "how cute," while sneaking me serious money if I promised to pretend I'd forgotten the words. Undaunted, I continued my serenades until a couple of weeks ago when my wife Barbara, noting a direct linkage between these performances and a shrinking circle of friends, asked me to cease.

Obviously, my mother had very devoted and tolerant friends.

During this period, the 40s, there were many grown-up parties where my mother, aunts, uncles and friends sang song such as "Now is the Hour," "What'll I do?" and "You are my Sunshine." Then my mother, one of her sisters and her sister-in-law would attempt to sing Andrews Sisters hits such as "Rum and Coca-Cola" and the "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." My mother also had a large record collection, which would no doubt be valuable now. In addition to the Andrews Sisters, it included other favorites such as Nat King Cole, Vaughn Monroe, Sammy Kaye, The Ink Spots, and her all-time idol, Bing Crosby.

While my mother and her friend sand and danced to the pop tunes of the day, my grandmother, who was of direct German lineage listened to and hummed German classical music—Brahms, Wagner, Beethoven, Bach, etc. She would sit in her rocking chair crocheting miles of bedspreads, tablecloths, and doilies while listening to the Bell Telephone Hour, while I lay on the floor and absorbed the sounds through aural osmosis, as I leafed through piles of comic books. It wasn't long before I started humming and whistling things like "The Blue Danube" and "Lieberstrom," and finally marches such as "The Washington Post March, which fit nicely into my developing interest in toy soldiers.

My mother took me to a movie about the life of Rimsky Korsakov when I was about 8. Because there was a little sword-fighting in the movie and the composer's character had a swashbuckling heroic demeanor, I pretended to be the dashing Russian for a week or so thereafter, which was a little confusing to my friends.

Johnny: "Okay, I'm Blackbeard the Pirate, Marshall is Francis Marion and who in the hell are you again, Bobby? Romanski Carkoff, a Russian composer?"

Looking at Marshall with mock fear in his eyes, Johnny said, "Oooo, we better watch out, he might run us through with his big conductor's stick. Get back, Francis."
With his auspicious beginning, one might have speculated I would become some sort of musical prodigy, presuming that I possessed the necessary talent, of course. But that theory was never tested. Despite persistent offering of music lessons from my grandmother, I opted for the more mundane types of "playing."

My next significant musical moment came in 1952, when I went to West Point to see my cousin graduate. It was a very exciting experience for a 12-year-old boy, as the entire academy corps marched by, and I spotted my cousin's distinctive profile. The band was playing the "Colonel Boogie March," which is the same tune that the British Troops whistled in "Bridge Over the River Kwai." Even now, when I hear that tune I get goose bumps.

As a river of testosterone swept me moaning and screaming into my teens, I advanced from the Africa section of National Geographic to females in songs like Della Reese's "The Big Hurt," Gogie Grant's "A Wayward Wind," and Johnny Ray's "Cry."

Also around that time, in what I call my "Confused European Period," many songs I found catchy all seemed to sound alike: "The Theme from the Moulin Rouge," "The Poor People of Portugal," "April in Paris and "Blue Tango." I fantasized about being Joseph Cotton, but only with the stipulation that I could wear a Cary Grant wig, wince Mr. Cotton's hair always reminded me of sheep's wool.

"Sixty Minute Man" and Chuck Berry's personal rock 'n' roll explosion launched me into beer-aided, initial shag attempts at the St. Philip's Church Activity Center. My shagging improved to barely mediocre along with my increased beer consumption.

By the late 50s, a typical weekend afternoon consisted of hanging out in groups at the home of a couple of girls and playing Johnny Mathis hits such as "Chances Are," "The Twelfth of Never," and "Misty," ad nauseam. Some of the guys were gutsy enough to slow dance or even shag while they were sober. I waited till later that night at The Sands, one of the few local nightclubs in those days, where we sloshed down Viking-sized pitchers of Budweiser and cavorted wildly to bands led by black guys named Calvin and Lance, who blasted out Lloyd Price, "Where Were You on Our Wedding Day?," Jackie Wilson, "Lonely Teardrops" and Richie Valens, "La Bamba."

There were the sock hops where the principal hovered at the entrance to the gym looking for signs of glassy stares and "Bud Breath," where just outside the school building, hordes of teenagers, chewed Wrigley's Spearmint gum and sucked desperately on mint life-savers. Once inside, those fortunate enough to have dates slid around the highly-burnished court to Platters' numbers such as "The Great Pretender" and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," until ineluctably, some creep with a ducktail threatened the student DJ into playing some awful Elvis creation like "You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog" or "Heartbreak Hotel."

I was seduced by jazz one night at a dark and smoky bar (Where else do they play jazz?) in Savannah, when I heard George Shearing play "Honeysuckle Rose." I won't say that I became an immediate jazz aficionado and went out and bought dozens of Thelonious Monk, Charlie Parker, Ella Fitzgerald and Dave Brubeck records. Actually, I never bought any records until after I got married about six years later, but I really did make an instant emotional connection with jazz.

I think I liked jazz so much because it seemed to be more spontaneously creative than other kinds of music. Its artists appeared to live in worlds of their own. I have always appreciated natural nonconformity, and these people with their special variety of soul-conceived music all seemed to almost exist in another dimension, especially Miles Davis, who may have been operating one dimension beyond the others.

In those days, the early 60s, you could sit at The Cove, a nightclub where the East Bay Grandy's is now, and play the jazz-sated jukebox all night, or you could meander over to the Owl Club on Market and listen to Willie Cheek play the piano.

I had a friend, Sam, who played guitar. He could pretty much play anything. He, a couple of other friends and I would buy a few cases of beer and go sit on one of my friend's boats or on the dock, at the old Charleston Yacht Basin, where we would sing songs all night—anything from Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly to the Kingston Trio and Harry Belafonte. Sam would always run out of beer and cigarettes first because he bought less than everyone else, but we all kept him supplied so he would continue playing. The songfest would eventually end in the early hours of the morning with Sam still sitting slumped over his guitar, asleep, his lit Lucky Strike stuck between the strings and the finger board, grunting inaudibly at our abortive attempts to shake him awake for one last rendition of "Scotch and Soda."

This time also marked a somewhat limited interest in folk music, not limited in fervor but in scope, since the only singers I really enjoyed were the Kingston Trio; Peter, Paul and Mary; and Belafonte. I mean, I don't have any Arlo Guthrie or Buffie St. Marie records.

Oh, sometimes on long, solo car trips, I may still occasionally lapse into a spirited "Zombie Jamboree" or yes, even a "Puff the Magic Dragon" in between my renditions of "Johnny Be Good" and "Runaway" but honestly, that's all there is to it.

Any playing of Ray Charles' "Georgia" or Louis Armstrong's "Hello Dolly" redeposits me on a bar stool at Big John's Tavern, where I must have heard those songs a thousand times, while I washed down 2-inch-thick roast beef sandwiches with Pabst on draft.

As for the performances of the late 60s and 70s—Jefferson Airplane, The Doors, The Who, Janice Joplin, Jimi Hendrix—I have no emotional nexus with them, perhaps because my musical umbilical cord was still attached to the previous two decades. I liked the Beatles and, later on, McCartney and Lennon by themselves. I love their music and have a vast volume of it stored within my rapidly diminishing brain cells, but none of it is tied to any particular memorable life experience.

During this time, I developed an interest in Dionne Warwick who sand Burt Bacharach compositions, not to mention Herb Alpert, and Edie Gormet. In fact, they may have been the first records I ever purchased. I also bought a Doc Severinsen album, an act which shocked even my wife. But I am not ashamed. The guy plays a great horn.

Fortunately, I had no emotional linkings to disco and even if I did, I wouldn't admit it, not even at a disco devotee's anonymous meeting. I will say that I thought Donna Sommer had a good voice—just a bad agent.

I have come full-circle in the 80s and 90s. I like the "oldies," and by that I don't mean just the 50s and 60s stuff. I'm referring to the 30s and 40s as well, the same music that my mother and her friends liked. Perhaps this is no more explicitly illustrated than in my choice of Harry Connick, Jr. as my favorite new artist. My grandmother would also be happy to hear that I have started listening to classical music on National Public Radio despite the noisome prating of their self-important narrators.

Maybe I prefer to full my todays with melodies I already have developed poignant associations with, rather than risk the possibility of experiencing a noteworthy life event while listening to Sinead O'Connor. Of course, I'm still vulnerable to a twangy, tacky Tanya Tucker tune and the chance soul-searing event while innocently strolling through K-Mart.

But whenever I can control my musical environment, I will. Since I have become a sort of walking Wurlitzer of musical memories, I want to be sure I have a good selection to choose from before the plug is pulled.

(Originally published Feb. 1992)