“But…you didn’t get caught.”
“No, thank God. We, uh, slipped through the cracks.”
He shook his head, laughed through his teeth. “Well, thanks for listening to your lawyer’s advice, schmuck.”
“I know, I know—but I think this might be a real lead.”
“So what you’re saying is this detective guy went to investigate a retirement village, then he dropped the case and moved there?”
“Yup, that’s what it looks like.”
“Okay—but it might not be the way you’re framing it. Maybe he just…wanted to retire and his work happened to lead him to the right place.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “This place looks pretty upscale for an old snoop—Fountain Grove Estates. I mean, is it assisted living or some kind of…group or what?”
“You mean like a cult?”
“Not a cult-cult, but the web copy is ridiculous. Utopian alternatives, let’s all light some incense and play shuffleboard in the raw.”
Fry grinned. “I get it—heavy sixties ethos. Mindfulness, all natural, love and peace, vegan, holistic, hemp bathrobes, a little THC bar. Of course, public nudity’s on the menu.”
“Yeah, but something’s off-kilter. They have all this ad copy about dying with grace on the website, with all these euphoric, blissed-out aging faces.”
“Self-actualization for grandpa and grandma—nothing off-kilter about it. Ten zillion boomers are about to check out. They want it to be as groovy as Woodstock.”
“Okay, that much I understand. But where do the DJs fit in?”
“Corporate sponsors—they lure the target market.”
“According to Wiki, these guys were the kings of Boss Radio. They held the coveted Saturday night slot on KHJ—you know, AM for the cruisers.”
“Well, yeah—a hundred fucking years ago. Now how are they gonna earn some bread?”
Fry closed a case of black lenses embedded in black foam. Together, we pulled the awning across the deck and Fry opened the laptop. Howard the cat hopped on my lap—whatever was on that screen, he wanted to see it too.
“Check this out,” I said. “Seventy-two thousand fans—clockin’ their every move.”
Kip and Rog had their own Insta with links to YouTube videos of their air checks, and the talkbacks were loco:
Bring back the dynamic duo!
Teen town lives!
americka ended june 16, ’92—the night Kip/Rog went off the air
“1992,” I said.
“I’m amazed they made it that long,” Fry said. “I guess the lucrative world of oldies but goodies kept them in business. But let’s play the old-school shit.”
I reached over and fired up a YouTube: Kip ‘n’ Rog 93 KHJ Wednesday 22nd December 1965.
No movie, just a still black and white of the two hepcats. Their air check slogan pumped in like a megaphoned battle cry—“Teeeeeeeen Towwwwwwn Tunes IN!”
Then one of them started talking—the fastest silver-tongued DJ spiel you could ever imagine, riding over the sound of snapping fingers. “Wigsters, digsters, geepies and groovers, you’re cooking with K and R, the caper cruisers from coast to coast, the hosts who don’t have to boast, we’re wailing with the wax and shuttin’ down the shushers on that twisting river of electric light known as Everystreet, Anytown, U.S. of A. Sooooo fire up your hot rod, jack up your jalopy and go, baby, go!” Then, the sound of revving engines and screeching tires as the opening riff to Sonny and Cher’s “The Beat Goes On” kicked in.
Fry shot me a droll look and we both burst out laughing. But as the laughs died, we sat there listening like two men in a kind of séance. It quickly became apparent the fast one was Kip, the cool one was Rog. They spun 45s, took dedications, ran bombastic ads for swimsuits, razors, and something called Gorilla Milk.
“You’ll go ape for Gorilla Milk—now featuring strawberry malt…it’s hairy!”
Then, over an orchestral bass drumroll, Rog said, “Fasten your seatbelts, swingers, it’s time…for…the Pickup Line Parade!”
A Salvation Army–style band romped up behind the clang of an old-school ringing phone. Then Rog, in that easy half-southern drawl of his, said, “All you fine people out there makin’ it with the modern sound, we’ve got a very special guest today right here in the studio with us, we just met her right out there on our way in, window-shopping on Fairfax Ave, a lovely young lady right here with us at radio station KHJ, she’s sweet sixteen and impossible to ignore, folks, finalist in the Miss California Pageant—you shoulda taken that trophy, darlin’—Miss Marjorie Hirsch.”
A cacophony of trumpets and kazoos and then—
“Hi, Kip, hiya, Rog.” Flirtiest voice on the planet, pure sunshine. “Can’t believe I’m really on the air!”
“You really are, darlin’—is this a pretty girl or what? Now—tonight, as promised, we’re gonna take some calls, let the boys make their pitch, and you decide. You know how the Pickup Line Parade works?”
“Of course I do—I’m your biggest fan.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Wait, wait a minute—play that again, like, half a minute.”
Fry toggled back.
“—she’s sweet sixteen and impossible to ignore, folks, finalist in the Miss California Pageant—you shoulda taken that trophy, darlin’—Miss Marjorie Hirsch.”
“Hi, Kip, hiya, Rog. Can’t believe I’m really on the air!”
Pointer finger trembling at the screen, I said, “That’s Marjorie Persky.”
“Who?”
“Cinnamon’s mother—the lady with the LP. Sweet sixteen—Jesus.”
“Quite the ambitious teenybopper.” Fry leaned in to focus. Kip and Rog were leading a series of nervous teenage boys through phone-ins, each one trying to make their voice sound deeper, more suave, more commanding than the last:
“Hi there, miss—just wondering. Are you a magician? ’Cause whenever I look at you…everything else disappears.”
“Hey, baby, let’s go to the mountaintop…’cause after we make love…you’ll see flowers in the snow.”
“Excuse me, ma’am—do you have a map I can borrow? ’Cause I’m getting lost in your eyes.”
After each phone-in, that same haranguing rave-up of trumpets and kazoos. And after the last caller, Kip said, “Okay, Miss Hirsch, that’s three for three.”
“What do you say?” Rog piped in. “Any of these fellas stand a chance?”
And then, Marjorie, this “female guest,” so obviously a paid actress, said, “Caller number three, I liked your style best.”
