Don't You Forget About Me

In 1966, when I was 15, I got on a Greyhound bus in Glendale, California. Alone. Forty hours later I was back in Houston, my hometown. It was July 13. I had to look up the date, but that was easy; Richard Speck killed eight student nurses that night in Chicago. I heard it on my transistor radio.I rented a room in the old neighborhood, went swimming a lot, briefly saw a couple buddies, had a fling with a cute little blonde. But after 57 years I don't recall much.I do remember the Lovin' Spoonful accurately describing my Summer in the City. Sam the Sham kept coming up with excuses to get Lil' Red Riding Hood to let him walk her to Grandma's place. I can't remember the little chick's face, but I think about her every time the Troggs encourage me to relive my Wild Thing. And, though it took me over two years to figure out the lyrics, when the Association warned me that desire is the fire in the eyes of chicks whose sickness is the games they play, I got really careful about Mary. I got back to California, uncontrollable and independent, just in time to live the Sunset Strip Riots. Bufalo Springfield lost no time in telling the over thirties For What It's Worth.We forget the faces, the places, the traces of love; but not the music. For the most important occasions in our lives, it is the radio that scribes our history.Twenty-four tales from the 40s to the 80s, and considerably more of the songs that make them memorable. The stories won't relate to anybody born after Nixon, but the tunes will be familiar. Read more