Annette - The Monkeys Uncle

A glorious day off — the kind where the dark, the stars and the quarter moon, and the slight breeze hit just right and Super Cooper The Wonder Dog strutted around like he personally negotiated the weather. After our walk (where he led, and I merely followed like his unpaid intern), I did the usual: shower, coffee, pretend I’m a functioning adult.

Then it happened. My distracted brain tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Hey… what if we went into the spare room and surrounded yourself in 45s?” And like a fool, I listened. Next thing I know, I’m knee‑deep in boxes of 45s, pulling them out like I’m on some archaeological dig for tiny vinyl relics. I swear my world must want to crush me under endless piles of 45s — like a Looney Tunes gag but with more obscure labels and regional pressings.

So now I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by stacks of 45s to clean, play, and “enjoy,” which is code for “rediscover the same records I’ve already rediscovered twelve times.”

Eventually, I became un‑distracted (a rare event when it comes to records) and checked what I’d recorded over the past month for my Monday surf/drag theme. And there it was: Annette Funicello with the Beach Boys.

Instant childhood flashback.

I remember watching that movie as a kid — all those Disney flicks where everything was sunny, wholesome, and slightly weird. The opening credits rolled, Annette and the Beach Boys kicked in, and tiny me thought, This is the greatest song ever recorded by humans. So explain to me how this wasn’t a hit? The Beach Boys were at the top of their game. They could’ve sung the phone book and charted.

Maybe if Buena Vista had slapped “BEACH BOYS” across the sleeve in giant letters instead of pretending they were just some guys Annette found at a beach rental, it might’ve had a chance. But no — Capitol probably pulled their classic “We’re being (oh I wanted to use dirty words) today” routine and buried the credit like it was radioactive.

Annette says “everyday is Valentines,” so consider this my chalk‑candy kiss to you — the kind that tastes like sugar, nostalgia, and a little bit of surf‑rock injustice.