
"Gold" was all over the radio in Baltimore during that summer, aided by the witchy-wailing of Stevie Nicks and the guitar work of Lindsey Buckingham which managed to conjure both the feeling of a warm LA breeze blowing through my hair as I cruised Santa Monica Boulevard care free in a convertible and the sense that the floorboard was alive with snakes. I couldn't wait to get there and began searching for a Saint Patrick medal.
Oddly enough, when I did get around to cruising Santa Monica Boulevard, it was exactly as I had imagined except for the convertible. And the snakes. Probably because I had two Irishmen in the car.
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