By Eric Brinling
I found myself walking down the street last Tuesday. It was a good thing, too, as I had
lost myself three days prior and was getting worried.
That’s when it hit me. A wall of harmonized vocals assaulted my ears and made me crave
for a groovy day of surfing on a California beach. It was a familiar sound, as I had previously
been lured into a back alley by the legendary Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys with this very surf
rock sound, and once more it acted as a siren song. Against my better judgement I was drawn to
the sound’s source, another dark alley.
My sight was limited by the darkness, but I could make out a lump in the shape of Brian
Wilson of the Beach Boys slumped on the ground. The music stopped, and the Brian Wilson-
shaped lump winced in pain, as if the music had been sustaining him. And now, it seemed, the
vintage 60’s-era radio was out of his reach.
“Help Me, Rhonda,” he gasped, noticing my presence. Despite not being Rhonda, I
turned the radio back on. The lump, already much more energized, stood, and formed the
distinctive shape of Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys. He held his hand out to me, and asked, “Do
You Wanna Dance?”
I politely declined, but he egged me on. “Dance, Dance, Dance,” he said, getting angrier
with each repetition.
His eyes were now filled with hate, for I would not dance with him. He puffed up his
chest, beat his fists, and crack his back. He was going to beat me up! Or, as he put it: “Bull
Session with the ‘Big Daddy’.”
He charged. But, of course, Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys is a 78-year-old man, which
I told him, but he only said, “I’m So Young.” I can assure you, he was not so young.
It took him about two minutes of shambling to get to me. That might not seem like a lot
but we were merely six feet away from each other. Then he clocked me, with a surprisingly solid
left hook, knocking me to the ground.
“Don’t Hurt My Little Sister,” he said threateningly. I didn’t know what he meant by that,
since I didn’t even know Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys had a little sister, but I assumed, by the
way it was said, that it was a threat.
I struggled to get up. “Fun, Fun, Fun,” he said, mocking me. Then he kicked my shins,
knocking me down once again.
“Do It Again,” he said, goading me to try standing up again. Taking the hint, I stayed
down. “Wonderful,” he said as he walked jauntily out of the alleyway, seemingly getting jauntier
with every step.
As for me, I writhed in pain on the pavement. I could feel myself getting older, wiser, and
more musically inclined. The only thing keeping me alive was the vocal harmonies of myself,
my brothers Dennis and Carl, our cousin Mike Love, and our friend Al Jardine. I knew that,
when the music ended, I would soon perish.
I was dejected, demoralized, and yet the only words I could force out of my mouth were:
“I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times.”
The Pitiful News 