SIS: Lost In The 50's

Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette falls ill with rocking pneumonia & the boogie woogie flu

     So I was sitting in Taco Bell the other day.

     (Yes, technically, I’m one of those freaks who actually eat inside a fast food restaurant. I should mention that the only reason I do so is that I’m forced to by the man I married; he doesn't like eating inside his sacred vessel (read: truck). Another rule worth mentioning: no touching any part of the truck's exterior, except the handle, and your feet may only touch the floor mats. Any movements outside of these approved areas will be met with a verbal warning. If you fail to heed this warning, the next step is stopping at a car wash. The manual kind. You know, the ones that take at least 20 minutes and are freezing cold this time of year?)

     Anyway, back to Taco Bell.

     I was sitting there contemplating life and the Great Beyond, whilst dipping into a substance diplomatically referred to as “nacho cheese,” when I became suddenly irritated. It was akin to the feeling you get when you’re hung over and at the grocery store the day after Halloween. At first you have no idea why you feel angry, and then you notice there is Christmas music playing in the background.

     Glancing around to find the source of my irritation, I finally heard it: "Rockin’ Robin ... tweet ... tweet ... tweet. Rockin’ Robin … tweet … tweetly-tweet."

     Fifties music. The only music in the world as irritating as Christmas carols.

     Of course this made perfect sense. At the time, Lost in the ‘50s was only three weeks away; apparently they were getting a jump start. This also meant, like spotting the first robin of spring, that soon all the stores and restaurants in the Sandpoint area would start cranking up the oldies. My “glad rags” were most certainly not on.

     But before we get any further, let’s get something straight: I like Lost in the ‘50s, it's a good time. If you’re from Sandpoint, Lost in the ‘50s is like Christmas, or the Fourth of July. All Sandpoint natives are called back to the homeland to celebrate a decade most never lived in, and the vehicles that made it great and gas guzzling.

     For whatever reason, this makes perfect sense. And – underscored – it’s fun. There’s even a parade, and it’s the best parade ever simply because you’re encouraged to drink beer and cheer for revving engines. You know a celebration is a big deal if it has a parade.

     Also, unlike Christmas or the Fourth, people can actually relax during Lost in the ‘50s because there’s no expectation whatsoever that you’ll spend it with your family.

     There’s no special dinner, no gifts, no religious undertones, no weird mythical creatures sneaking around your house at night. Oh, and it's your choice whether or not to bring your kids.

     As far as holidays go, honestly, it’s almost perfect. People dress up in their best ‘50s garb, so you get the costume component of Halloween; there’s a grand parade, a la the Fourth; specifically themed music, as in Christmas; and the beer flows freely, like St. Patrick’s.

     But going back to my initial beef: The music is the only part I don't like, and I’m not even exactly sure why. I'm starting to think my parents locked me in a basement and forced me to listen to Buddy Holly for days on end.

     Whatever the reason, I have a serious aversion to it.

     Part of the problem is that I just don't get it. There are too many secret code words: “hound dog,” “dust my broom,” “be-bop-a-lula,” and it’s just a tad too sweet for my vulgar tastes. Also I really hate the fact that if I hear “Great Balls of Fire” once it’s lodged in the inner-core of my psyche for at least 10 days. I’d do anything to rid myself of that song, and the need to sound like a cracked-out ghost in order to properly sing along with it. Good thing it’ll be on heavy rotation for the rest of this month (*sarcasm).

     Oh well, with everything else I like about Lost in the ‘50s, if people want to dress up and play bubble-gummy music for a weekend, far be it from me to stand in their way. It’s tradition, right?

     Best get myself a beer and a nice poodle skirt and enjoy it.

Happy Lost in the ‘50s, Sandpoint!

Scarlette Quille