So I’m gassing up at the Chevron station.  There’s a twentysomething in an 80s Volvo station wagon, did he inherit it from his parents, or did he buy it on the cheap, running this grayed out, sun-faded mom-mobile to its final destination.

We’re nose to nose.  Does this mean I’ve got to back up to let him out, or does he have to back out?  I mean we’re almost touching.  I pulled up appropriately, the hose is right by my tank, I’m filling up with $2.98 a gallon gas.  But his car is so long, he’s got to inch it forward.  He’s done first.  But I want to check the twenty odd messages on my BlackBerry.  Is it common courtesy?  Should I rev up and back out, or since I was there first, do I have the right of way?

He inches forward.  Imploring me to leave.

We oldsters are afraid of twentysomethings.  They’ve got nothing to lose, no money, no assets.  They’ve got contempt for us.  We want to appear hip, but really, they see us as losers.  And this is just enough for me to make a stand…but wouldn’t an asshole make a stand?

Then he was gone.  And I backed out onto Fifth Street, and after cruising past the Post Office, just the other side of Broadway, just before I hit Colorado, I hear that synth chord, and then that hypnotic, lyrical guitar figure.  And then…

It’s two a.m.

One of the great things about driving is it’s your own private world.  You rule.  At least at this hour, just shy of 11, out on the highway, alone.  That’s what I love about nighttime.  There’s no hustle and bustle.  As those playing by society’s rules are winding down, in bed, the denizens of the dark take over.

There’s no pressure at night.  No deadlines.  No crowds.  It’s the best time to shop.  Especially in 24/7 Los Angeles.

One hit wonders are not supposed to come back.  Vanilla Ice is not supposed to follow up his hit.  Nor is Bobby "Boris" Pickett.

But this band from the Netherlands, with the almost novelty hit from ’73, suddenly reappeared in 1982.  With a monster.

Was it MTV?  Did the dearth of videos allow it to surface?

I’m not sure, but "Twilight Zone" is a classic.

It’s two a.m., the fear has gone
I’m sittin’ here waitin’, the gun still warm
Maybe my connection is tired of takin’ chances
Yeah there’s a storm on the loose, sirens in my head
I’m wrapped up in silence, all circuits are dead
I cannot decode, my whole life spins into a frenzy

They shoot this scene in movies all the time.  Man in foreign city sitting by the telephone, in a bare hotel room, rented for business, which isn’t happening.  Why not?  Have the plans derailed?

It’s always when you’re doing something illicit, when you’re on high alert, that a single awry detail leads to a chain of unpredictable events that seal your fate.  You’ve got no control, all you can do is follow the facts, the events, the roll of the dice.  Your whole life has been building to this point.  You’re supposed to emerge victorious, but suddenly, you’re nearing the end.

Maybe it’s that test you didn’t study for.  Or the partner who has fled with another man, someone you didn’t even know existed.  You feel duped, you feel like a chump.  You feel alone.

Help I’m steppin’ into the twilight zone
The place is a madhouse, feels like being cloned
My beacon’s been moved under moon and star
Where am I to go, now that I’ve gone too far
Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone
Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone

When the bullet hits the bone.

This is not something you recover from.  The doctors are flummoxed, they can’t help you.  This isn’t a break, no your core structure has been shattered.  Not snapped, but pierced, exploded.

You want to go back.  Isn’t that the way it is after every accident.  You should have looked before you changed lanes.  You should have wondered why you always got her voice mail.  You should have listened to your gut, there was no way the IRS would allow that write-off, that deduction.

But you can’t go back.

How did you get here?

Despair.

But freakily, Golden Earring’s "Twilight Zone" has just the opposite effect on the listener, it’s inspirational!  It’s the driving bass.  That keeps pounding, that keeps you and the song going.  You feel powerful.

I’m falling down a spiral, destination unknown
A double-crossed messenger, all alone
I can’t get no connection, can’t get through, where are you
Well the night weighs heavy on his guilty mind
This far from the borderline
And when the hit man comes
He knows damn well he has been cheated

And even if you could reach them…the cell phone provider has a record of every call, every text.  There’s a trail.  You’ll be caught.  You’ll be out there alone.

Cheaters never prosper.  Oh, sometimes they win, but their outsider status, the telltale heart, does them in.  You’ve got to function under the surface.  For once your foibles are visible, you’re done.

Just ask David Geffen.  An icon before "The Operator".  A cunning, conniving, heartless manipulator thereafter.

Are the winners losers?

Are the losers winners?

Who knows in the twilight zone.