Suburbs and sin...
I was part of the generation that got wasted in basement rec-rooms walled in faux "wood panelling" and wreathed in smoke; "101 ways to smoke dope in your parent's basement without them suspecting a thing" was a best-seller at the time, if I remember correctly, and I wouldn't put too much money on that.
Ah, the recreation room!
Wreck room wrecked room...
Nothing says 70's louder than the word "rec-room."
Well, maybe a spin of a vinyl Earth Wind and Fire album.
Vintage vinyl is in again, by the way, a fact that would make me a rich man had Junior not filched my 3,000 strong collection of first edition vinyl originals.
I'd be angry, but at least he used the proceeds for tuition.
It's hard to be angry about that.
Besides, when Abbie wrote "Steal this book," everybody understood he wasn't just talking about books.
But I was down south at the weekend, down Guelph way. What always amazes me when I go down there is how big the place has got. We used to run quarter mile drag races on roads that are entirely enveloped by quarter million dollar chicken coops today.
Urban sprawl at its finest.
I recall lighting out north in a scary fast 396 Nova from the corner of Woodlawn and Victoria, flashing lights in hot pursuit. You'd be seeing 150 mph down the hill past Lou Fontinato's farm. That's Mph, not Kph, kids.
In a Nova SS.
Try that in your Honda Civic...
You wouldn't want to do that now.
The shoulder is lined with the parked cars of hikers who hit the trails down by the bridge beyond Louis' farm. 30 klicks seems plenty fast here.
That's a head-fuck for the modern era, that folks will drive a gas-burning emission-spewing 100 km to get back to nature.