Summer 1992 Theme song
Such a cliche
Kenny Chesney says it best, I think. “Every time I hear that song, I go back.”
The year 1992 was the summer I learned to never mix orange juice with anything alcoholic. No Tequila Sunrises or Screwdrivers. Not even Captain Morgan and orange juice are a good idea. But when the flirty, blue-eyed Son of a Surgeon is standing behind his father’s basement bar, complimenting me on my skirt? Even good girls have a breaking point.
A group of us college kids worked for the same company. To quote Bob Seger, “we were just young and restless and bored.” Tony, a doctor’s kid, played up his Italian background and made us jealous by talking about his mom’s cooking. We had to take his word for it. He never shared.
Son of a Surgeon — I wish I could remember his name — drove an old Land Rover. He was always willing to drive. One humid night, a bunch of us piled in after a late shift and went to see the fireworks after a baseball game. We parked outside of the stadium lot because we were cheap and snuck in along the back fence. Standing in the lot, craning our necks star-ward, we could smell the chemicals from the fireworks. Ten minutes into the display it began to rain buckets.
Rather than run for the car, we slithered under parked cars to stay dry and still be able to see the rocket’s red glare. I never did get that oil stain out of the back of my t-shirt. On the way home that night, Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet” came on the radio. We sang along, mangling the words, and waited for the next adventure.
A couple of weeks later, Son of a Surgeon told us his folks were going out of town for the weekend. We were all invited to his house for a party. Looking back now, it was so cliche. In fact, the girls who were invited each brought something to eat. Popcorn, pizza rolls, bags of Skittles, and cheese sticks littered the kitchen table. There was so much popcorn! The guys brought the alcohol. Go figure.
The gathering commenced in the surgeon’s air-conditioned basement. It was mostly finished with a tile floor, a bar, a funky couch, and card tables and chairs. Tony’s girlfriend spilled pop all over the floor when she tripped on the last step. Poor thing was mortified until someone spun up the record player and the first song was “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.” I laughed because it really was perfect timing. We knew the night was young. Spilled soda was the least of our worries.
It turned into a running gag. Every second or third track, someone spun BTO up again. For some, it was an opportunity to outdo the last goofy thing at the party. How many Skittles can you put in your mouth at once? “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.” Handstand on the bar? “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.” Another Tequila Sunrise? “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.” (Or since, in some cases.) We danced to it over and over and over. It became a mantra and the chorus became a challenge for the rest of the summer.
One of our intrepid group members was getting his pilot’s license and needed two passengers in his little Piper Cub for short hop practice. Challenge accepted. When he stalled that damned contraption — in the air — on purpose, I screamed my fool head off.
“What the hell, Jeff? Why would you do that?!?!”
I bet you can guess what he said.
When I hear that song it’s almost Pavlovian to murmur, “Hey, Summer ‘92 theme song.” The rankness of warm beer, sweat, and buttered popcorn hovers at the edge of my nose.
There was safety and camaraderie in that group; a little bit of daring-do, too. We pushed our limits and raised our expectations because a song inspired us to. I like to think it still does.
