member of the Beach Boys, the writer of the song, had a dog named Shannon that drowned, and so he wrote a song about it. This would explain the part of the song that whines about the dog finding an island with a tree, just like the one in the family backyard. How dumb is that? First, the dog is dumb because it loves to swim away and so it drowns. Then the guy singing the song is dumb because he’s crying about how his dumb mom and dad are missing the dumb dog. If your dog was that dumb, why would you write a song about her, even if her name was Shannon? Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. No-brainer for the list.
Our list was called the A.C. and Ben Top Ten Dumb Songs of All Time, but we had more than ten songs on it. Over time we lost count, but we could make strong arguments for each and every song on the list. Most people wouldn’t argue, though. Our list included “Muskrat Love” (duh, dumb), “All by Myself” (the guy is assuming someone is listening to his dumb song), “Having My Baby” (what a lovely way of saying how dumb the song is), “I Am, I Said” (Neil Diamond sings to a chair that doesn’t reply), anything by Neil Sedaka, and most songs by Barry Manilow. Just to name a few.
A.C. was best at making sound arguments to justify placement on our list. Lucy and A.C. once went at it over the presence of the song “The Candy Man” on our famous (or infamous) list. A.C. looked Lucy squarely in the eye and asked her, “Do we really need to argue about sprinkling a sunrise with dew?”
Lucy could not answer.
A.C. responded, “I rest my case.”
The dumb dog song was just ending as we got to the fence and was replaced by Elvin Bishop’s “Fooled Around and Fell in Love.” Not on the Top Ten Dumb Songs of All Time. Perfect background music for checking out girls.
We rode up to the fence on the side of the pool where the diving boards were. Our unspoken plan was to stand by our bikes acting not very interested, as though we were just stopping by on our way to another and more interesting place. Soon one girl might come up to the fence, followed by a friend or two, and in time we would be hanging with a group of girls—granted, with a fence between us. That was the plan.
While waiting for the group to assemble, we would stand there looking cool and talking about not-so-cool things, like the fart machine and the Farrah Fawcett poster Will had bought at Spencer’s Gifts in the mall. Is that a paradox or what? Will was boy enough to think that foul bodily noises were hilarious and man enough to think that a woman’s body was beautiful. I thought it was kind of stupid to buy the poster of the Charlie’s angel wearing that amazing, orange swimsuit, but that didn’t stop me from looking at the revealing pose that hung above his bed in his basement.
That day by the pool, we also discussed important issues like the mental state of the master on the TV show
I Dream of Jeannie
. Like, why was Larry Hagman so uptight when he had this gorgeous woman who lives in a bottle, calls him master, and says that she will do anything he wants? Was Larry dense or what? Our debates were disrupted by the loud, irritating singing of Lovey Webber. Lovey, who was now thirteen and developing nicely, sang loudly as she sauntered toward our clump. She wiggled over to the fence and giggled. She looked directly at me.
“Somebody got a haircut!”
“I got them all cut…”
Exaggerated laughter exploded. Maybe some other, more interesting girls would hear us and want to know what was so funny.
“Oh, Ben.” Lovey rolled her eyes and tilted her head. “Hey, we’re all asking our moms if they will take us to Peony Park tomorrow night for Sprite Nite. You want to meet there?”
Peony Park was the Omaha amusement park located in the center of the city at that time. Grandpa Mac told me that he used to go listen to the big bands at Peony Park Ballroom when he was a young man. In 1976, the older Mangiamelli boys worked the rides at the
Our list was called the A.C. and Ben Top Ten Dumb Songs of All Time, but we had more than ten songs on it. Over time we lost count, but we could make strong arguments for each and every song on the list. Most people wouldn’t argue, though. Our list included “Muskrat Love” (duh, dumb), “All by Myself” (the guy is assuming someone is listening to his dumb song), “Having My Baby” (what a lovely way of saying how dumb the song is), “I Am, I Said” (Neil Diamond sings to a chair that doesn’t reply), anything by Neil Sedaka, and most songs by Barry Manilow. Just to name a few.
A.C. was best at making sound arguments to justify placement on our list. Lucy and A.C. once went at it over the presence of the song “The Candy Man” on our famous (or infamous) list. A.C. looked Lucy squarely in the eye and asked her, “Do we really need to argue about sprinkling a sunrise with dew?”
Lucy could not answer.
A.C. responded, “I rest my case.”
The dumb dog song was just ending as we got to the fence and was replaced by Elvin Bishop’s “Fooled Around and Fell in Love.” Not on the Top Ten Dumb Songs of All Time. Perfect background music for checking out girls.
We rode up to the fence on the side of the pool where the diving boards were. Our unspoken plan was to stand by our bikes acting not very interested, as though we were just stopping by on our way to another and more interesting place. Soon one girl might come up to the fence, followed by a friend or two, and in time we would be hanging with a group of girls—granted, with a fence between us. That was the plan.
While waiting for the group to assemble, we would stand there looking cool and talking about not-so-cool things, like the fart machine and the Farrah Fawcett poster Will had bought at Spencer’s Gifts in the mall. Is that a paradox or what? Will was boy enough to think that foul bodily noises were hilarious and man enough to think that a woman’s body was beautiful. I thought it was kind of stupid to buy the poster of the Charlie’s angel wearing that amazing, orange swimsuit, but that didn’t stop me from looking at the revealing pose that hung above his bed in his basement.
That day by the pool, we also discussed important issues like the mental state of the master on the TV show
I Dream of Jeannie
. Like, why was Larry Hagman so uptight when he had this gorgeous woman who lives in a bottle, calls him master, and says that she will do anything he wants? Was Larry dense or what? Our debates were disrupted by the loud, irritating singing of Lovey Webber. Lovey, who was now thirteen and developing nicely, sang loudly as she sauntered toward our clump. She wiggled over to the fence and giggled. She looked directly at me.
“Somebody got a haircut!”
“I got them all cut…”
Exaggerated laughter exploded. Maybe some other, more interesting girls would hear us and want to know what was so funny.
“Oh, Ben.” Lovey rolled her eyes and tilted her head. “Hey, we’re all asking our moms if they will take us to Peony Park tomorrow night for Sprite Nite. You want to meet there?”
Peony Park was the Omaha amusement park located in the center of the city at that time. Grandpa Mac told me that he used to go listen to the big bands at Peony Park Ballroom when he was a young man. In 1976, the older Mangiamelli boys worked the rides at the
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