I was at home doing laundry. “Home” was in fact an apartment off of Magnolia Street in Cedar Falls. It was a non-descript complex featuring about 10 two bedroom units with the obligatory laundry room in the basement. I’d go down to do a load and come back and watch television. It was the afternoon which meant that there was nobody using the washing machines. Everyone was at work. Everyone except me.
Gilligan’s Island was on, and as I waited for the load to end, I would watch a little bit of the episode. It happened to be one of my favorites, “Don’t Bug The Mosquitoes,” the one where a Beatlesque band shows up on the island.
The phone rang, interrupting my bliss of Gilligan.
“Hello?”
“Todd?”
“Yeah…”
“Why aren’t you at work?” the female voice asked.
“Uh…Because I’m at home. Who is this?” I inquired, my interest peaking particularly because it’s a lady.
“This is Johnette Napolitano of Concrete Blonde.”
“No way. Really?” I asked, considering the possibility that it was a prank.
“Yup.” She answered assuredly, laughing a little at my obvious disbelief. “We tried getting you at the radio station but you weren’t there. Some girl there said that you’d be pissed that you missed the call, so she gave us your number at home.”
It was at this point that I knew this wasn’t a prank. You see, I was a fan of Concrete Blonde’s second album, Free, and played it obsessively at the station. In fact, it was the number one album in our rotation and Lori Blumenthal at I.R.S. Records had been very appreciative of our support of the record.
So supportive, in fact, that she encouraged the band to give me a call.
If only she would have scheduled it…
But no worries: I was talking on the fucking phone with the lead singer of Concrete Blonde!
“So what are you doing right now, Todd?” she asked.
“Um…I’m doing the laundry and watching tv.”
“Very exciting day, huh Todd?” she asked. It was obvious that she was on a speakerphone and that a few other members of Concrete Blonde were also present.
“So what are you watching?” she asked.
“Gilligan’s Island.”
“Which one” she continued.
“Um…It’s the one where that band finds their way on the island…”
“The Mosquitoes!!” They all yelled in unison.
I was totally impressed that they knew the ornate details of this…and other…Gilligan’s Island episodes.
In fact, for nearly 10 minutes or so, we did nothing but talk about Gilligan’s Island, the lunacy of their predicament, the heartlessness of those who fell upon this deserted island, managed to get off, only to never speak of the castaways whenever they reached civilization, and the homoerotic relationship that Gilligan seemed to have with the Skipper.
I’m sure that I fawned over Free during the conversation and I’m sure they were appreciative of my station’s support of it, but the bulk of the conversation was nothing more than an analysis of a mid-60’s comedy, a conversation that could have easily taken place among friends over a loaded bong and a dope fueled imagination.
Life can indeed be funny at times: one moment you’re alone with your laundry, watching a show of an episode that you’ve probably seen a dozen times or more. The next moment, you’re talking on the phone with some quasi-famous band from L.A. about….well….about that same goddamn rerun.
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