Driving through Los Angeles on a beautiful, cool, relatively smog-free day, Irma flipped on the radio. A horrible den out loud electric guitar noise and thundering drums supporting a demonic sounding vocalist shattered the relative quiet of the RV. The seemingly possessed singer (if that’s what you could call him) was screaming obscenities and something about how stupid he was, and how life was sick and rotten, and not worth living. “Turn it off,” shouted Bud. Irma quickly complied.
“What happened to the good old-fashioned love songs?” said Irma with a sigh and a shake of the head, “Where’s good old Frank Sinatra when you need him?”
Bud began chuckling. “What’s so funny, old man?” Irma said turning towards her husband with a bemused smile. “Talk about a couple of dinosaurs,” chucked Bud. They both were laughing now.
