My mother made me take accordion lessons in the early 1960’s, and I barely survived the dweebness of playing the Can-Can at a kid’s neighborhood party. I was in hell, standing in front of cool guys sitting in folding chairs, watching me squeeze a white mother-of-pearl box back and forth, wanting to die.
For the love of God, I live in California, land of surfers and blonde haired people. I wasn’t on the Lawrence Welk Show, where chunky girls who actually looked like me smiled at their audience as the audience danced a polka.
The Beatles performed on The Ed Sullivan Show, and my friends claimed their favorite Beatle, imitating them on the school stage. I faked loving the Beatles, bought fan cards at the toy store, declaring “And I Love Her” was my favorite song of all time, and John was my favorite, since I needed a favorite Beatle. I didn’t really care. I loved the The Beach Boys, Everly Brothers, Kingston Trio, Peter Paul and Mary. Motown and Muscle Shoals anything was great, especially Wilson Pickett’s Mustang Sally.
I wasn’t going to be thin unless I threw up, which seemed like a good idea because I wanted to be Twiggy, with big eyes and a stick-like body. In truth, I was a pubescent California suburban bodysurfer, who loved the beach, sing with a plastic juke box and running around hills pretending to be a Miwok.
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