This column was published November 2, 2024 in the Manhattan Mercury.
It’s 1976. The Bicentennial, Dorothy Hamill, Happy Days, Taxi Driver, and the Andrea True Connection,
Three chums from the Wichita Heights class of 1975, sharing a 2-bedroom second-floor pad overlooking the pool in the brand new Woodgate apartment complex on 21st Street between Oliver and Woodlawn.
Long hair, bell-bottoms, and parties. The Andrea True Connection belting out my 1976 anthem, “More, more, more,” emanating from twin JBL speakers, each with a foam rubber checkerboard grill affixed with Velcro strategically positioned to fill the entire apartment with full sound. Woofers, midrange drivers and tweeters.
Three 18-year old guys living away from home for the first time and enjoying every ounce of freedom to which we were Constitutionally entitled and a few grams of some that we weren’t.
One roommate didn’t have a job, but always had plenty of dough. As a kid, he’d earned thousands painting street address numbers on curbs all over Wichita and had wisely pocketed his earnings and invested. He later went on to success managing global pipeline projects for the Koch brothers.
We had him pegged back in 6th grade. In the curb painting years.
In the summer and fall of ’76, he spent most of his time in a beanbag chair in the middle of our apartment living room, a cold Olympia in his fist, beating Jeopardy contestants to the punch.
“WHAT IS MANIFEST DESTINY..?! Even Matson knows that… C’mon..!”
He would drain a beer and bang the empty can on the nearest solid surface. That was the cue for his girlfriend to fetch him a fresh one. The fact that she did it willingly (almost Pavlovian) prevented those of us who thought it crass and demeaning from pointing out the obvious flaw in this relationship.
Neanderthal see, Neanderthal do.
Beanbag beer boy was all Ronald Reagan. This was 1976, when Ronnie ran a fire-breathing conservative insurgency campaign against the GOP mainstream.
Roommate #2 was for Jimmy Carter. His agenda was pretty narrow: Operating solely from the assumption that a vote for Carter got him one step closer to more lenient pot laws.
That left me.
Forget ideology. In ’76, I couldn’t get past Reagan’s pompadour. My generation had already suffered entirely too much parental pushback to grow and wear our hair long for me to support Mr. Vitalis. Carter’s shtick seemed contrived. With hair down over his ears, he struck me as some middle-aged dude trying too hard to relate to me.
Gerald Ford was my man.
Right down the middle. He was the anti-Nixon, his 19-year old daughter was what we then called “a fox,” and Bob Dole was his running mate. For the times, for me, for 1976, Ford was Baby Bear’s porridge – just right.
Only three years removed from Roe, the prospect of legal choice had real meaning in the lives of 18-year old Bicentennial Freedom Exercisers (my caps). She didn’t call them reproductive rights, but First Lady Betty Ford said all the right things.
One roommate in the Ford camp. One roommate solidly for Reagan. The third roommate one toke over the line (Sweet Jesus) and oblivious to politics. And the law, as it later turned out.
On Election Day, togged out in my polyester, platforms, and puka bead necklace, I jumped into my 1971 forest green MGB ragtop (I still pine for that car) and motored to the polls. A half dozen ginormous gray mechanical voting machines in a church dining hall. Push down the levers corresponding to your choices then pull the big red handle, which simultaneously cast your votes and opened the curtain.
Please pay attention to that man behind the curtain. It’s his first vote.
Hopped back in the ‘B’ and eased home to Chez Woodgate.
I have no doubt we had a party.
Mike Matson writes a twice-monthly opinion column for the Manhattan Mercury, and hosts ‘Within Reason’ weekdays at 9 a.m. on NewsRadio KMAN, also livestreamed on YouTube and posted as a podcast on the KMAN website.
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