Everyone who grew up in Los Angeles was absolutely perplexed by the same two things when they were very young. Cal Worthington’s dog, Spot, was never actually a dog. And, “pussy cow.”
Having grown up in Southern California at a certain period in time, this song gets stuck in my head AT LEAST ONCE A WEEK.
H and I have spent a lot of time driving around together, which means a lot of time listening to terrible music together (mostly because I insist on terrible music, and on singing along). I’m pretty sure that this tradition goes as far back as when we both still lived in Connecticut and discovered that finally, finally, someone else knew about “Keys Keys Keys, Keys on Van Nuys” and “I Wouldn’t Have Got a Lemon (At Toyota of Orange).” Moving away from home meant discovering that all kinds of things I had thought were universal were, in fact, regional: grocery stores and coffee shop chains and the use of the word “stoked.” It’s not just the jingles themselves but the fact that we both knew and sort of loved them: long afternoons in the car, passing those shimmering lots on the 5 south or the 10 east, headed out of town. I always knew it was time to go home again when H and I started talking in freeways.