Yesterday I hit that special level of cynicism where even
my coffee looked scared of me. Then it dawned on me: dude… it’s your
staycation. You’re supposed to be relaxed, not auditioning for the role of
Bitter Man #3. So I did what any self‑respecting record hoarder does
when the emotional barometer swings into the red — I reached for some gut‑punch
soul‑soothing magic. And who better than The Rascals? Or technically “The Young
Rascals,” because apparently even their name had a rebellious phase.
Then I realized these saints of blue‑eyed soul haven’t
appeared on this blog in 13 years. Thirteen. Freaking. Years.
That’s practically a geological epoch in blog time. No brainer: they’re back.
I’m pretty sure I own every 45 they ever pressed — stock,
promo, plus the weird variants that only five people on Earth care about. And
when I eventually start collecting pressing‑plant variations, that’s when
you’ll know I’ve gone fully over the edge and should be gently escorted to a
facility with soft lighting and no sharp corners. Honestly, I shouldn’t even
joke about it because… I’m close. Very close. That’s when I’ll officially cross
the Rubicon into “needs supervised care.” Until then I will continue to delude
myself. It’s fine. Everything’s fine
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