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D-D-Day, Drop Dead Legs and the Sausalito Sausage

Today marks the 70th anniversary of D-Day, the seaborne invasion of German-occupied Normandy that proved a decisive Allied victory but with 4,414 confirmed dead. D-Day is called such for the same reason H-Hour has its name (and in print both look like a stutter). One might suspect there are also an M-Minute and perhaps an N-Nanosecond but alas …

According to the U.S. Army Center of Military History, the redundant abbreviation “designate the day and hour of the operation when the day and hour have not yet been determined, or where secrecy is essential … When used in combination with figures and plus or minus signs, these terms indicate the length of time preceding or following a specific action.” So, for example, D-3 is when this column was due, but it arrived on D-1.

Keeping with the WW II theme, I told my editor that the column was late because I drafted it on an Enigma encryption machine and then lost the decoder key. To wit, if you’re reading this in English, the code has been cracked because, frankly, I couldn’t make any sense of it.

<p style="text-align: center;">• • •</p>

Today also marks the 30th anniversary of my purchase of Van Halen’s final album with David Lee Roth, “1984.” On cassette. I was 12 and freshly loosed into the hothouse of puberty; the psychic gulag of junior high loomed at the terminus of yet another endless summer, and Van Halen was a sonic salvo. This was the year Orwell thought would be such a drag, and yet here was some scissor-kicking, oversexed rodeo clown with a belting baritone and a blond mane that hung down to his assless chaps. David. Lee. Roth. Big Brother wasn’t watching us. He was covering his eyes.

Fast forward to the last song on side one, “Drop Dead Legs,” the big-bottomed walk-down that ably secures Roth’s status as the poet laureate of ‘80s hard rock. The lyrics don’t sound “written” so much as improvised upon the notion of a woman’s legs, which, despite the song’s title, rate only a single mention. From this thesis statement, Roth digresses into a surreal monolog that references the undead, dentition and a beloved Depression-era cartoon character. Sure, the lyrics don’t make any sense on the page, but in the ear … actually, they don’t make any sense there either. But Roth made it sound convincing.


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