Paul McLean

It's 1972, give or take. The McDonald's in South Pasadena is having an especially busy lunch rush.  I'm working the shake machine, trying to keep up with demand. I'm pretty stressed. I hear my name and turn. There's John, at the grill. He looks at me and growls. Not a real growl, but a Cowardly Lion growl. Kind of half growl, half woof. And I lost it. The noive! John spared me the full song, but he knew all the words. He could do a hell of an impersonation, aided by that one-of-a-kind smile of his. I can hear him now: "But I could show my prowess/be a lion, not a mowess/if I only had the nerve." Put in a word for me in the Emerald City, my friend.