California
When I was a kid in Michigan, California seemed like such a magical place, the land of the Monkees, Sigmond & the Sea Monster, and the Banana Splits, pressing my palm to warm screen of our Motorola TV set and feeling the electricity, singing along to the theme songs, hey-hey-hey… tra-la-la...C’mon get happy...blasting through the sand on 6-wheeled dune buggies like a Rat Patrol soldier, where everyone was a cowboy or a movie star, and all the girls looked like Sheila from the summer schoolyard who came to Michigan to stay with her dad every July, hot-pink hot pants, sky-blue eyes and sun-bleached hair, where everyone was rich and nobody needed money anyway, sporting nothing but cutoffs all year long, snoozing in the warm sand and gulping down Lefty Lemon Lime, where it was summer even in the winter, that just blew my mind, you could go skateboard-riding all year long, didn’t need to wait for the city to bring the swimmobile around to your neighborhood on Tuesday in the summertime because in California everybody even a hillbilly had a cement swimming pool in their backyard.
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