Disco Berry
It’s another tipsy Friday night, and I’m writing. The difference is I’m not writing on my own computer – my precious iMac. I’m downstairs, watching boxing on Showtime, writing on my roommate’s laptop. I’ve always toyed with the idea of getting a laptop. My only reservation: No mouse. I hate the little touch pad. Thankfully there’s a solution: USB ports. What won’t they think if next?
My post from yesterday sucked (nothing was wrong with the writing, but the shoddy graphic diminished the whole), and all day at work I wanted to redeem myself. But I was too busy. So I’ve decided to write a better post after stacking five empty cans of Pabst Genuine Draft on the coffee table. Try getting that in Iowa.
Disco Berry. I’d never heard of it before this week. A woman in the Social Ecology building always places a jar of candy outside her office, and I dipped into it on Wednesday to find a curious new Starburst flavor. It was wrapped in white paper with red text, so I immediately thought, “Oh yeah. It’s gotta be a red flavor.” Red flavors are good. Strawberry, cherry, raspberry. They’re always savory in my book.
I took a break and went for a walk. The handful of Starburst’s I’d taken from the jar were in my pocket, softening from the warmth of my body. I reached in and my fingers selected one of the Disco Berry squares. I peeled off the white wrapping to reveal the burgundy chew. I put it in my mouth and mashed it between my teeth, letting my taste buds soak in the tang. I immediately thought of the raspberry sherbet from the old ice cream store at Pepperwood Place in Iowa City (for all of you who didn’t grow up on the south side, it’s where Econofoods and Best Buy used to be). It took me back home to the Hollywood Subdivision and Russell Drive.
But the name – Disco Berry – obviously harkens back to the 1970s, and for some reason I have this odd obsession with the ‘70s.
I’ve given it some thought, but haven’t figured it out. For some reason I’m infatuated with the ‘70s. I love watching documentaries, old sports footage, and movies made in the “me” decade. The funky house and progressive trance I sometimes listen to had its seeds sewn in the funk, R&B, and disco of the ‘70s.
Holy shit. Evander Holyfield’s being interviewed during the current fight and he’s wearing a bucket hat, which were popular during the ‘70s.
Sure, I haven’t been skinny and trim since I was a freshman at Iowa, but I’ve always preferred the slim, sharp collar, suave look. I like logo t-shirts and shirt tails, all of which I associate with the late-‘70s.
I think it’s because I lived in the ‘70s by proxy. Even though I was born in ’82 and grew up with the Smurfs and Transformers, I was surrounded by furniture and technology that was a decade outdated. The couch, the family desk, the kitchen table and chairs were all bought in the ‘70s. My dad bought our stereo system and speakers in Vietnam before he was discharged in ’69, but it had the analogue look with silver knobs and push buttons. No remotes at all. Even our TV – the Toshiba my mom bought when she was living in Los Angeles during the late-‘70s. Since we were poor, my clothes were hand-me-downs from my cousins and family friends, most of whom had grown up during the ‘70s. My parents didn’t listen to Top 40 radio much, so in the car and at home I heard the Bee Gees, Seals and Croft, and, my dad’s favorite band, ABBA.
Speaking about our car, it was a 1970 Buick my parents bought from my grandpa before he died. It was one of those big, metal boats, and my dad called it the “luxury liner” because it had air conditioning. When I was a kid I actually thought it could float.
About three weeks ago I went to the SuperCuts on Beach Boulevard. My hair was crazy long – the longest I think I’d ever let it grow – and I was explaining what I wanted the stylist to do. I was worried it was starting to grow into a mullet, and I asked her what she thought.
“No,” she said. “It has that seventies look.”
Also in my pocket were strawberry and orange flavored Starbursts, and when I was done with the first chew I dug through the handful and sorted through them, picking out the other candy wrapped in white. I shifted it to my left pocket to save for last.
On a side note, today I saw a Post-It next to the jar that said, “Only 2, please.”
My post from yesterday sucked (nothing was wrong with the writing, but the shoddy graphic diminished the whole), and all day at work I wanted to redeem myself. But I was too busy. So I’ve decided to write a better post after stacking five empty cans of Pabst Genuine Draft on the coffee table. Try getting that in Iowa.
Disco Berry. I’d never heard of it before this week. A woman in the Social Ecology building always places a jar of candy outside her office, and I dipped into it on Wednesday to find a curious new Starburst flavor. It was wrapped in white paper with red text, so I immediately thought, “Oh yeah. It’s gotta be a red flavor.” Red flavors are good. Strawberry, cherry, raspberry. They’re always savory in my book.
I took a break and went for a walk. The handful of Starburst’s I’d taken from the jar were in my pocket, softening from the warmth of my body. I reached in and my fingers selected one of the Disco Berry squares. I peeled off the white wrapping to reveal the burgundy chew. I put it in my mouth and mashed it between my teeth, letting my taste buds soak in the tang. I immediately thought of the raspberry sherbet from the old ice cream store at Pepperwood Place in Iowa City (for all of you who didn’t grow up on the south side, it’s where Econofoods and Best Buy used to be). It took me back home to the Hollywood Subdivision and Russell Drive.
But the name – Disco Berry – obviously harkens back to the 1970s, and for some reason I have this odd obsession with the ‘70s.
I’ve given it some thought, but haven’t figured it out. For some reason I’m infatuated with the ‘70s. I love watching documentaries, old sports footage, and movies made in the “me” decade. The funky house and progressive trance I sometimes listen to had its seeds sewn in the funk, R&B, and disco of the ‘70s.
Holy shit. Evander Holyfield’s being interviewed during the current fight and he’s wearing a bucket hat, which were popular during the ‘70s.
Sure, I haven’t been skinny and trim since I was a freshman at Iowa, but I’ve always preferred the slim, sharp collar, suave look. I like logo t-shirts and shirt tails, all of which I associate with the late-‘70s.
I think it’s because I lived in the ‘70s by proxy. Even though I was born in ’82 and grew up with the Smurfs and Transformers, I was surrounded by furniture and technology that was a decade outdated. The couch, the family desk, the kitchen table and chairs were all bought in the ‘70s. My dad bought our stereo system and speakers in Vietnam before he was discharged in ’69, but it had the analogue look with silver knobs and push buttons. No remotes at all. Even our TV – the Toshiba my mom bought when she was living in Los Angeles during the late-‘70s. Since we were poor, my clothes were hand-me-downs from my cousins and family friends, most of whom had grown up during the ‘70s. My parents didn’t listen to Top 40 radio much, so in the car and at home I heard the Bee Gees, Seals and Croft, and, my dad’s favorite band, ABBA.
Speaking about our car, it was a 1970 Buick my parents bought from my grandpa before he died. It was one of those big, metal boats, and my dad called it the “luxury liner” because it had air conditioning. When I was a kid I actually thought it could float.
About three weeks ago I went to the SuperCuts on Beach Boulevard. My hair was crazy long – the longest I think I’d ever let it grow – and I was explaining what I wanted the stylist to do. I was worried it was starting to grow into a mullet, and I asked her what she thought.
“No,” she said. “It has that seventies look.”
Also in my pocket were strawberry and orange flavored Starbursts, and when I was done with the first chew I dug through the handful and sorted through them, picking out the other candy wrapped in white. I shifted it to my left pocket to save for last.
On a side note, today I saw a Post-It next to the jar that said, “Only 2, please.”
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