Okay, do me a favor real quick. Just press play on this video and then read down.
When I hear this song, I have the overwhelming urge to fall asleep drunk in the sun then wake up and wear a 60s style bathing suit to go along with my canvas sneakers, Wayfarers and Lacoste v-neck tennis sweater. I want to stumble into a backyard lit by tiki torches where rich people are eating crab rangoon. I take an hors devour from the waiter and then smack the tray into the fire pit with a rum soaked uppercut. I will be careful not to spill my London Sour as I tightrope walk the perimeter of a kidney shaped swimming pool surrounded by a mid-century Alexander.
Then I’ll get into an argument about microchips and jazz with an old man who used to be a broker before retiring to Palm Springs. I will challenge him to a putting contest, only I will steal his car as he looks for his clubs and take his daughter to some nearby casino and bet all the loose bills he had in the glove box on red in a drunken game of roulette.
I will take my winnings and become part owner of a posh swim and tennis club just off the wind farm where I will begin bottling my own rum and writing my memoirs of my extensive European travels and my time being a film critic in Paris. I will complain about the free market and sell my stock and retire to a small island in the South Pacific where I will live off of coconut milk and wild boar.
Sadly, I will come home after becoming bored only to invent an energy drink featuring lychee and goji berries. I’ll gain about forty-five pounds and start wearing exclusively velour jumpsuits before selling my house and moving to the Florida Keys.