RULE BOOK FOR EARLY 70’S DATING: DID YOU FOLLOW IT?

The rule book for dating in the early 1970’s came from rock lyrics.

But not just any rock lyrics.

This isn’t about the free love sixties, even if it had a nice ring to it.

It’s about getting on down the road.

My high school classmates and I were freshmen in 1970; in those days we were the kings of junior high, not the lowest rung on the high school ladder.

Some of us had older brothers and sisters who knew what was going on: Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll.

But, as I said, we were freshman and couldn’t find our own ass with both hands.

We looked up to the older kids, the football players and cheerleaders.

They were our celebrities in a small town, as they are in all small towns.

Someone was going to go all the way. They’d be a college star, a pro star, and come back and tell us how they did it.

One of the girls would go to Hollywood and we’d see them on the big screen at the Port Theater, or The Egyptian.

It was bound to happen. Did it? Did it happen in your town?

 

We came of age in North Bend listening to the music of the day.

Most of the time there was a theme about getting out and hitting the road to someplace. With cause.

 

Well, I’m a-running down the road
Tryin’ to loosen my load
I’ve got seven women on my mind
Four that wanna own me
Two that wanna stone me
One says she’s a friend of mine

Come on, baby
Don’t say “Maybe”
I gotta know
If your sweet love
Is gonna save me

 

No pressure on ‘Baby.’ She just needs to prove she’s good enough for the guy running down the road.

How does that work out in the end?

She takes a blow to her self esteem from someone who had no intention to commit to a relationship on anything but his terms.

 

Seven Women? Who Even Knew Seven Women?

I had two dates in high school.

It didn’t go well so I avoided the whole thing.

But seven women? Not on my mind, or rule book.

I was six short of taking it easy, but it got me thinking about it.

If I were to hit the road to who knows where, would it be with the one who wanted to own me, the one who wanted to stone me, or the one who said she was a friend.

I broke out the map.

 

From the coal mines of Kentucky to the California sun,
Bobby shared the secrets of my soul,
Standin’ right beside me through everythin’ I done,
And every night she kept me from the cold.
Then somewhere near Salinas, Lord, I let her slip away,
She was lookin’ for the love I hope she’ll find,
Well I’d trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday,
Holdin’ Bobby’s body close to mine.

 

Bobby sounds like a good woman in the company of a drifter, a loner, a man headed the wrong direction.

She stood by her man and planned a future with him.

But . . . ?

He let her slip away, or she escaped.

Afterwards he’s full of regret and says he’d trade all of his tomorrows for a single yesterday.

How many of us would do that today?

Oh, boohoo for the one that got away.

Here’s a guy dragging his lady friend across the country, then abandoning her in Salinas?

Maybe she was a John Steinbeck fan?

She was lucky to get away when she did.

 

Men Of A Certain Age

You know them, you’ve seen them.

They are the cool guys with all the answers, a little black book; guys who can’t stand being alone.

So they ruin lives, at least for a time, due to their mommy issues.

But they’d never admit to mommy issues, daddy issues, or any other issues, because they are Superman.

And their friends are all supermen of the same ilk. Everyone else avoids them like they’ve been dipped in shit.

At a certain age a man gives off the loser stench, except they don’t know it.

Because of their lifestyle choices they leave wreckage in their wake and write their own rule book.

 

I noticed something about me in the early 80’s.

I’d been back and forth across the country six times by then.

Was I on the run? No, just making the best decisions at the time.

I’d flown, taken the bus, and hitchhiked at various times.

The bad relationship decisions? I told myself I saved women from a life of disappointment.

Why disappointment? I was a bad date.

I think I had as many dates in my twenties as I did in high school.

My apartment, a tiny studio, was date central.

That’s where a date began and ended.

I met women, met their families, and they all came to the same conclusion: Who is this guy?

One young woman drove us to her mom’s house in the West Hills to meet.

Mom took a good look at me and said, “Well, David, if you were wondering, we have no money.”

So I offered her $20 with a generous repayment plan. We all had a good laugh.

I was no gold digger, but if I was I’d had my chance earlier and passed.

What was I up to instead?

If I was ever going to get married, and it wasn’t looking good, I’d only do it once.

Was there a woman up to the challenge of living with me as a married couple trapped by a social institution?

Try explaining that one on a third date. Trapped and willing to gnaw off my ring finger.

Then something happened.

I’m currently thirty-seven years into what I like to call the best marriage imaginable.

 

What About The Rule Book For Drifters, The Loners, The Lost Boys All Grown Up

You’ve met the big talkers with a string of ex-wives, children they’ve never met, stepchildren they can’t remember.

They have plans that include themselves and no one else.

Women for them are a convenience, a disposable feature, someone to shit-talk until they can’t take any more then they wonder, ‘What’s wrong with them’ since they can’t imagine themselves at fault.

They pop a blue pill to show they have a W-W, a working wienie, gird their loins, and take their shot.

Then they pop a vein when they’re found out for who they are and get shown the door before they’re ready to leave.

“But we have fun together,” they say.

At least one of you thinks so.

“But I love you,” they say.

They’ve known each other a week.

After their latest dating defeat they get with their buddies to hate-talk about women before getting on with their agenda of stupidity.

 

When I was just a baby my mama told me
“Son, always be a good boy, don’t ever play with guns”
But I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die
When I hear that whistle blowing, I hang my head and cry

 

Crying is what you hear from men explaining where things went wrong in their first, their second, their third marriage.

Except it sounds more like blame. They like to blame the women.

Even if they blame themselves at first, they eventually get around to the women.

After that it’s their rotten kids who never visit because they know better than to expose themselves to a toxic waste site.

How does it all finally lead to a happy ending?

 

When the shadows of this life have gone
I’ll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly
I’ll fly away

I’ll (fly away) fly away, oh glory
I’ll fly away in the morning
When I die hallelujah by and by
I’ll fly away

 

By the way, Salinas is not too far from Folsom Prison as the crow flies.

Wouldn’t that be happy?

Check the rule book.