when you think vegas, you think elvis. you think wayne newton. you also might think clint holmes.
ah, vegas – the bastion of people who probably had their better days before them. anytime americans go off on britons for allowing mull of kintyre — perhaps the sappiest song ever put forth by my beloved secret boyfriend paul mccartney (and which, admittedly, i’ve grown fond of in my addle-brained old age) — to chart at the top for weeks and weeks, i merely have to point out our dirty little american secret: playground in my mind.
in 1973, bastion-of-vegas clint holmes struck it big with this nursery crime rhyme of a song, in which he duetted with the young son of his producer (a little boy who is now about the same age as i am.) to put things in perspective, 1973 produced a bumper crop of unadulterated musical crap (some of which you’ll read about soon); it also managed to produce such amazing classics as my love, you are the sunshine of my life, crocodile rock, stuck in the middle with you, let’s get it on, and one of my guiltiest of pleasures, will it go round in circles.
but perhaps the creme de la creme de la crap from that year would be this song. even then, as an eight year old, i knew this song was awful; and i recall making up awful words to it. probably not as awful as i do now, of course, thanks to years of maturity. things involving michael, who had a nickel… bag. and cringing at cindy, whose highest aspiration in life is to get married, have a baby or two, and let them visit their grandma.
yes, cindy said, sighing, you kids go visit your grandma. keep her away from her crack pipe, willya?
somehow, holmes parlayed this song into a las vegas career, including a room named for him at one of the hotels.
(no, i am not making this up.)
on the bright side, what went to vegas stayed in vegas and never bothered the rest of us again.