THE CULTURAL VOID

Written by

Jim Mendrinos

     I was born in 1964.  By the time I arrived on this orb the Beatles had already fired the first salvo in the British invasion, and the Rat Pack ruled the Vegas Strip.

     By the time I came into cultural awareness, the arts were experiencing a cultural void.  It was a time when we put on our bell bottoms and grooved to such super-groups as the Osmonds, The Defranco Family and the Bay City Rollers.

     Every song was sad.  We were playing “Alone Again Naturally,” “Season's In The Sun,” and the “Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald.”  The songs were all sappy and sad.  Want proof?  Michael Jackson, well before he lost his mind, recorded a song called “Ben.”  It was a poignant little ditty between a boy and his rat
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     Did I mention that cultural void?

     We tuned into one of the thousands of variety shows on TV.  Occasionally Sammy or Frank would pop up on the screen, but not until after we had to hear an opening monologue by the Starland Vocal Band, or see a sketch featuring John Denver and Foster Brooks.  More often then not, we didn't even get to see a member of the Rat Pack, we got to see someone like Lou Rawls or Ben Vereen sing “On Broadway.”

     Kids ate pop rocks and played with click clacks.   Our sisters fell in love with Keith Partridge or Bo Donaldson.  The cool kids knew all the words to “Brandy.”

     There was so much artistic sludge back then that “It's a wonder I can think at all.”

     As the decade came to a close, there was a pop culture rift.  The punk rockers squared off against the disco freaks.  By the time I turned 18 disco was dead and so was Sid Vicious.  Then MTV sprang up and the radio died as well.

     I’m amazed that I was able to make it out of the cultural mine field of the seventies unscathed.  Sometimes Though, I get nostalgic.  So I whip out my Bobby Sherman albums and reminisce fondly about my mood ring. Surprisingly, the cheese of the seventies has turned into some sort of nostalgia comfort food. "Candida" seems fun now -- I can almost see Tony Orlando's tuxedo shirt undone at the top button and his tie untied.

       Instead of dreading "Midnight at the Oasis," or changing the station when "Maude" is on, I scour the oldies station of my radio and check program schedules for all the networks on number 100 and above on the cable. last night I sat through both "Westworld" and the "Towering Inferno."

        I still miss Monty Python, Benny Hill on PBS, and don't even get me started on "Animal House" or "Star Wars." Yes, it was a campy decade in the arts, but it was honest.

     Now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to slip on my white shoes and watch me some Kojak. Who loves ya baby?