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.
