It's April 1965 - You're Gonna Start A Band - People Laugh - You Don't.

August 1983 - You're Twenty-Something - You're A Party Animal - You Overdo It

Fresh out of grad-school - squeaked by - even you amazed yourself. Landed your first corporate gig. Fortune 500. Entry level - growth opportunity and a closet full of suits.

You put on a great show - even the CEO notices - word gets around - upwardly mobile. Got this down - Future bright and shiny. Eye on a Bronze 911 Targa - eye on the Receptionist - eye on a golden pay package. You have arrived.

Tiny problem - Maker's Mark is mother's milk to you - can't stay away from it - can't stay away from marching powder - buzzed head and a numb nose with grinding teeth. You keep a lid on it - tight. Except for weekends. That's okay - weekends were made for Michelob - you're a Party Animal.

Missed a couple Mondays - food poisoning - Killer Shrimp's the culprit. Missed a few more and a few Wednesdays - family dying like crazy. Boss sends flowers - mortuary never heard of you. Visine and Kleenex by the truckload. Short fuse and white knuckles. Office mutters and coughs when you walk by.

Co-worker leaving, heading off to the London branch - he has the office with a view and you're next in line - going away party. Open bar and a night full of possibilities. But . . .

Everybody in the office now knows what your singing voice is like - you have a loud one. They also know you have an opinion about everything and it's as loud as your singing voice. You're A Party Animal - you are touchy-feely. You are hugging everything but the buffet tables.

Receptionist you've been eyeing has a mean right hook - she decks you on the way to the elevator. That hand of yours had a mind of its own. Security shows up - they don't want you to hug them.

Gets a little fuzzy after that.

Next thing; sitting in an office in your underwear - clothes are on the floor - sweating gallons - dying of thirst - someone's writing on a clipboard, nodding and mumbling - someone's going through your pockets, nodding and mumbling. Car keys locked in a drawer. You're staying a while. Looks very clean - doesn't look like a hotel. Feels like you're becoming a monk. You get slippers - green paper slippers, a white robe and a welcome to the Betty Ford Clinic.

It looks like rehab - it sounds like KROQ on the intercom. It smells like coffee and cigarettes - they will be your best friends for the immediate future.

Farewell Party Animal.

Here's 45 minutes worth of Dusty Street from the inimitable KROQ on August 18, 1983.

https://pastdaily.com/2024/05/11/its-august-1983-you-live-in-l-a-youre-twenty-something-youre-a-party-animal/