Avoiding this week's graduation activities. In fact, I think I owe the school an undergrad transcript or something. Been home, watching a bit of TV and sending out some resumes. Trying to get back into sync with the rest of the world, rejoin the human race. Trying to remember who the rest of these elusive friends of mine are. Avoiding showers and apparently, lotion. I can write my name on my skin. Thinking about the sports blog but not sure what my first post will be. Making new penpals and plotting trips I cannot afford.
An aside: good to hear from you, youthlarge , but Glavine remembered how to pitch yesterday against the St.L. Cardinals b-squad. And as for the OC, I fell asleep 15 minutes before the beginning… missed the whole thing. Thanks to neverecho for the recap. Even though you didn't tell me Theresa came back.
The multi-week celebration of Eben and Kandle turning a combined 60-palooza ends tomorrow in Prospect Park like an epic, cross-cultural/ four-dimensional battle for the ultimate chalice, one that will bestow—...no. That is not the way to go in this post. I may be rusty but the hint at pomp is unnecessary here; it will be explained a little farther down—no peeking.
It’s supposed to rain today. I hope not. Not for the birthday kids’ sake; instead, because I do not want to waste the time I have spent plotting out pumpkin cookies. Either pumpkin oat or pumpkin chocolate chip or maybe even pumpkin raisin—I consulted neverecho and she thinks the third is “nuh-uh” and the first is “good” and the second warranted an “idea” email introducing the idea of cream cheese frosting. In the Am I must get the actual chips. If I thought they would work I would add white chocolate chips. But they will not…
VH1 showed their 50 most awesomely bad metal songs last night. Those who know me well know that this is the kind of show I am likely to get incensed about; only my opinions are correct, after all, and I hate watching smarmy kids who never listened to the music or who were barely old enough to be into it making the funnies about the bands. Don’t get me wrong; the reason I love many of the featured songs and have them on my IPod is because they’re pretty silly. But to have the channel that played Amy Grant on repeat when I was growing up now tell me that a “metal” song can only be about biting off the heads of bats and Satan is curious. No matter how the channel has changed their brand into something cool and retro.
“Metal” is in fact a misnomer in VH1's hater hands, spanning the bat-biting Ozzy and Black Sabbath to the Los Angeles post-punk glam/ hair bands such as Mötley Crüe to the Danzig to apparently Marilyn Manson and Limp Bizkit. Within this clump is a wide range of styles. The Kiss/ Black Sabbath/ Alice Cooper days were about shock value and arena rock. AC/DC and early Van Halen just rocked. The Crüe and Poison wanted to avoid herpes, find warm places to sleep, and get chicks to buy them whiskey and blow. And then there are the derivative bands, the rats on every musical ship. Considering the Insane Clown Posse and Fred Durst’s repeated musical mistakes adds a completely different fanbase/ culture/ musical style to the proceedings.
The bands on VH1’s list shouldn’t be judged on the same criteria. It’s easy to pick a crappy song that Britny Fox of Jackyl did. They couldn’t play their instruments. By the late 80’s the bands were mailing in their performances, had high pyrotechnics budgets from Atlantic or Geffen Records, got advice on their bad love ballads from Bob Rock, and got their hairspray and Ibanez guitars for free.
Quiet Riot’s song about partying was bad—as is almost every song that is written for the express purpose of “blowing out speakers” or staying “up all night.” It’s unoriginal, reminiscent of Lionel Richie telling us to dance on the ceiling, and that is the criteria to call a song lame. When the song is obviously boring, even by the standards of the time, like top pick “the Final Countdown” by Europe, that is too good criteria. Also: when a song is pompous, like the aforementioned Europe song. When a song is creepy like Winger’s “Seventeen.” When the singer has a dumb ass affectation like Mike Tramp of White Lion. When the singer reaches that unbelievable, nuts on a counter being smashed by mallets sound.
Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again was hilarious, and was obviously written to get girls in the arenas and panties off after the high school dance. You could look at who was way into the song and be like “target.”
My top two would have been the same, I admit, but the order switched: Europe’s retardculous pomp followed by Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.” I wish I had a copy of that song, but it always offended me. And I LIKED Warrant.
The song, first, and foremost, has lead guitars guest played. Like a guest star in a sitcom? And played by CC DeVille of Poison. Who could play his instrument but mostly cared about the solos because they got the chicks with teeth. The obvious merits of “without teeth” will not be brought up, but I know you were thinking it. Now, having a guest guitarist is fine but if you know the music, it’s not complex. What were Warrant’s 2 guitarists doing in the interim? Giggling about cherry triangles in women’s laps? Yelling at singer Jani Lane the immortal lines "I stirred the batter and she licked the beater?" The innuendos in the song were limp and I didn’t get half of them then. Cherry Pie model Bobbi Brown’s next claim to fame was 12 years later on Blind Date. Even for a party song, this song was coke-addled stupid, even topping Ratt for boring lyrics and Trixter for cheesy clichés.
I am going to make a metal mix for Liz. If you want one… let me know. Maybe I will make one when I can afford the peroxide blonde, playground teased hair wigs and makeup kits I’d like to send with the music.