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rock and roll salvation

The exact moment was January 3, 1984 – that was the day that Bobby Gutley realized that Rock and Roll was dead.  I was 15 years old, sitting Indian style in the middle of Gutley's living room on shag carpeting that smelled slightly like cat urine.  Gutley, myself and just about every other kid I knew were glued to a TV set at that moment, in basements, living rooms and bedrooms all across town, awaiting the premiere of Van Halen’s latest video ‘Jump' on Mtv.
My friendship with Gutley went back to grade school, not only had we played baseball and football together, and shot BB guns at each other's heads, but we had spent a thousand afternoons peddling our bikes over crooked pavement and cracked sidewalks, through gravel back alley short cuts, puddle hopping our way to the snack shop/filling station a half mile across town. We listened to Ted Nugent and Foghat on the jukebox and oogled cheap porno magazines that we stashed inside our Mad magazines as we ate hot dogs and chips…

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