Brand new continuation of WWD's ongoing serialized dramatic madness, Acid Fizz. The first three parts can be found here, here, & here.
click picture & open link in a new tab for a song while you read
Great good golly it thrills me so when the apple of my eye whispers in my ear. I get real speechless and I act so shy but all I can say is a-nee-nee-nee-nee-nye.
My hair flings side to side as I shake it. I doo-doo-la-la and hum to the song. I sip my coffee from a paper cup. Slurp. Mm. Sweet and luke-warm. Now what do I do next? Let’s see. I flip through the records I have stacked here. Talking Book, Brooke Benton, Doc Watson, Ohio Players (later), Beach… Boys. Why do I love to hear the Beach Boys every time I’m in love?
Not love, come on, get real. You just like him, how could you not, he’s a hunk, a categorical hunk. He likes Howlin’ Wolf, he touched your arm, your arm. Ah! Okay. Enough. Beach Boys it is then and not because you’re in love (not in love) but because the Beach Boys rock. Got to be Wild Honey, Wild Honey, Wild Honey. Title track? I Was Made to Love Her (I was born in Little Rock, had a childhood sweetheart, we were always hand in ha-ha-ha-hand)? Darlin’? Darlin’? Darlin’ (dig-diggity darling, who who my darling you’re so fine). Ding. That’s it.
Slide the platter out of its case. Grease: The Original Soundtrack from the Motion Picture gets expelled to the mess of unsheathed records on the counter. Let’s see, side two, cut three. Lower the needle. Play it on the in-house track. Sounds good, sounds great. Stop the spin. Turn it backwards and there’s the backup singers in reverse and slow, dooj-blaj-cooj-brooj.
He wanted to kiss me, I could feel it. We should have slipped away. I wanted to kiss him. I bet those lips taste like applesauce. Him on me…
Shit. My playlist is blank. Fuck. I haven’t filled it out in a half hour. Let’s see, I had Wanda, Olivia and John before that, Booker T., Aretha, no, Chambers Brothers, Dylan before that, then Aretha, and what fucking started the set? Shit. I can’t remember. This is why it’s no good to be in love. Fuck you, in love. Just fuck him already so you can get off your mind. Yeah right. I fuck him and I won’t stop thinking about him until next Christmas. I don’t want him off my mind. I like him on my mind. Bobby.
This is why you fucked up the Chambers Brothers. Snap out of it. Don’t want another insomniac calling in and complaining because you accidentally let their favorite song play for three seconds. Hooka Tooka, my soda cracker. I wonder if anyone will notice that I only played love songs all night. The secret theme for the night.
Ring-ring! “Hello… Hello… Hello…” They huff. I’ve heard this huff before and the static over it. The receiver rubs something. Click. Dial tone. That’s sad. It’s sad that my music hits dead ends. I wish everyone that heard my show heard my thoughts at the same time, I try to make that happen. Not all of them, but the important ones, the big ones. I want them to hear my thoughts through the music. It’s great when they call back and I can hear theirs. It’s an open channel, it flows both ways. It’s a pity that there’s someone out there that can hear me but can’t let themselves be heard. I wonder what they’re like. Could it be Bobby? No. He’s not shy. But I would like it if he called right now.
It’s funny. When I look at the dials and the records and keep my head in the music and my thoughts and then all of a sudden I look up and I’ve forgotten where I am. I’m alone in a dark building in the middle of the night. It’s lonely and a little scary, but also nice. I love it actually. I’m alone but I’m connected to who knows? A couple hundred people probably, maybe more, all over the world. That couple in Tacoma that listens every week, the request last week from New York for The Exciters, that guy in Rio who likes to email. Ah! I love Saturday nights.
And I ain’t got nobody. I got some money ‘cause I just got paid. Oh shit. Can it wait until after the Beach Boys? No. Got to be now. I got eleven seconds until the end of the song… Ten… I can do it.
Lift the needle, toss the platter. Flip through the records. Not Sam Cooke, not Sam Cooke, not Sam Cooke, not Sam Cooke, not, not, not, not, not, not, not, shit yes Sam Cooke. Side one, cut three. Dip into silence for a second. Drop the needle. Hiss. Silence just a hair too long. Good. It builds suspense. Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody. I got some money ‘cause I just got paid. Now how I wish I had someone to talk to. I’m in an awful way. Dig this.