From my life and times. With Summer receding in our collective rear view mirrors. This came to me. Memories of when I was trapped like a bug in the loving amber of my family. In this case the summer baked vinyl seats of my dad's 50's Buick. Once upon a time: We’re on Eisenhower's new Interstates coming back from the beach. I’m six with a butt full of gritty sand my little sister Sylvia on my lap on either side my big brother John, and older cousin Jimmy. 

We’re all jammed onto a back seat that spent the afternoon cooking. I think most of us have been there. We were the hapless victims of the American industrial infotainment hegemony. Oh, the mid-20th Century dreams of TV dinners going to da moon, and segregation. We shall never see their ironic likes again. 

...mostly.

A side bar to all this. While at the beach I wanted to wear my mom's sunglasses. I wasn't allowed. Only mothers' movie stars, and drug addicts did that. My dad wasn't about to let any of these careers befall me. It was a close thing. Mother drug addict movie star...no. Queer artist radio broadcaster...yes. I was just trying to make dad proud.