Hi. I’m actress Jamie Neumann. Aaron has asked me to play the part of his imagined mom, aged 20, circa 1979. Not yet a mom actually, and definitley not yet 40, which is what I, Jaime Neumann, am aged. 20. 40. It’s not so hard to imagine, right? But, you know, it’s funny because he asked me to play another woman, a hysterical one circa 1910, another pomo-haunting situation, and it begs the question: does Aaron see me, Jamie Neumann, as emblematic as air-quotes-historical woman? That’s a question for another video.

In this one: I’m leaning up against a hot rod red convertible; no, not the one my second husband will buy me as a consolation prize for cheating on me so much, no no. This is a friend’s brother’s, you know that one I have a crush on, that’s how all the movies from the 70s are, right? Okay, I’m leaning on it in this way that says: (flirty) hey, how about you take me for a ride? No, no, I promise you, I was way too shy for a line like that. Plus, I still had braces (ding!) See, this is my sister’s friend’s convertible and we get to take it for a spin, just us girls. And the radio announcer says:

You’re tuned into RoundRock’s KEZ-98.7 and up next are some boys you may be familiar with…

My son, that’s Aaron, the one making this video: He’s just been listening to the top 40 hits of 1979 and trying to discern which might’ve been my favorite. My son’s gay, but you know queer-gay not gay-gay like twinks at a gay club, that’s a distinction I really made. I may be a 20-year-old-40-something-aged 64, but hey, I’m with it! What I’m trying to say is: I;’d never been to a gay club. Shy white girl like me, blone-brunette in central Texas. No, no. And I wasn’t no twang twang country chick either. I’d much more likely be dancing the night away with Van Halen than Diana Ross or Donna Sommer. It’s the last days of Deborah, my mind, y’know. It gets. My words are. You know what I mean.

So he says some boys you may be familiar with and I know he’s talking about Eddie Van Halen, and David Lee Roth, but for a second I see…Keith. Not Richards. Keith McCormick’s gonna be my boyfriend; he was the one who got away, the one i thought about throughout my first and second divorce. God, the first one as dull as a rock, the second would hit ya as hard as one. But Keith. He’d go on to join the peace corp, doctors without borders, and then he’d find me again. All before buying land in rural Washington and joining a militia for Donald Trump. Damn. Look, I wasn’t great at pickin’ ‘em.

But now the song is starting. Dance the Night Away. It’s got that big amphitheater guitar reverb. We’re ripping through the suburbs of this mostly Mexican city in central Texas. I’m gonna move here, get a job with an ad agency for Spanish speaking markets. Have two kids. Leave advertising when the Mitt Romney campaign approaches to get more air-quotes-hispanic-voters. Then I’ll become a Jungian informed psychologist for grieving kids. And people in hospice. I like helping sad people; I was mostly sad, y’know. Melancholic. But remember me for a moment like this: 20 year old hopeful. Hot rod blazing through red lights. Dancing the Night Away.