Post-Memorial Day Musings

For Memorial Day, I took a drive up to The Shire to spend some time with my parentals. Sadly, the weekend went by quick, but as is often the case with me, a few thoughts lingered....

"Cherry Pie" by Warrant is one of the top five hair metal songs??? Desperate to keep myself awake during the long drive up on Friday night/Saturday morning, I set my Sirius Radio dial to Hair Nation, a kick-ass station that marauds your ears with rockin' noise from all the great 80s hair bands: Dokken, Quiet Riot, Queensryche, Cinderella, Night Ranger, and the Scorpions, to name a few. During the course of my 4.5 hour drive, I was fortunate enough to stumble upon a Top 50 Countdown of the best hair metal songs, as chosen by Hair Nation. Things started off well enough. I caught the countdown somewhere in the late teens and was on board with several of the picks: Foolin' by Def Leppard made it high on the list, as did Nobody's Fool by Cinderella. (Playing the fool -- or refusing to do so, as the case may be -- is a major theme within the hair metal genre.) Metal Health and Cum on Feel The Noize by Quiet Riot also made the list. I was enjoying the headbanging, belting out all the lyrics I could remember to whatever song was playing, when they decided to throw Cherry Pie at me at number five. Number five! Are you fucking kidding me? said I out loud, to no one. I think I was on the Mass Pike by then. Anyway, for those of you who don't know, Cherry Pie is the single stupidest song ever written. And it's my firm belief that Warrant, the simpleton purveyors of this piece of lyrical horsepucky, single-handedly ushered out the hair band era. In 1991, everyone heard "Cherry Pie," realized they'd hit rock bottom, and it was out with hair metal in all its forms and in with Nirvana.

Here are some of the lyrics:

Swingin' on the front porch
Swingin' on the lawn
Swingin' where we want
'Cause there ain't nobody home
Swingin' to the left
And swingin' to the right
If I think about baseball
I'll swing all night yea
Swingin' in the living room
Swingin' in the kitchen
Most folks don't 'cause
They're too busy bitchin'
Swingin' in there 'cause
She wanted me to feed her
So I mixed up the batter
And she licked the beater
I scream you scream
We all scream for her
Don't even try 'cause
You can't ignore her
She's my cherry pie
Cool drink of water
Such a sweet surprise
Tastes so good
Make a grown man cry
Sweet cherry pie oh yea
She's my cherry pie
Put a smile on your face
Ten miles wide
Looks so good
Bring a tear to your eye
Sweet cherry pie

Real deep stuff. You see, "Swingin'" is a metaphor for having sex, see, and "Cherry Pie" is a peurile euphemism for the kitty, the china, the poussoi, La Va Gina, see, and when you put it all together you get a moronic song that only a half-wit could love. Warrant. Even the name of the band is stupid. How could they give it such a high ranking? It's beyond my comprehension. Hair Nation received no quibble from me, however, on their choice for #1. Can you guess it? Drumroll please.... Round and Round by Ratt. Yessee.

My parents finally got broadband Internets. Allah be praised! It felt so strange to be connected at my parents' house. You have no idea. The last people to get the Internet were not a potato farmer's family in Idaho or some bedouin family in the Sudan. They've had the Internet for years. No, my parents are the last people to get the Internet. And they're total neophytes, God bless them. I spent two hours on Saturday adding their favorite websites (Fox News (ugh), La Stampa, Corriere de la Sera, Boston.com, MSNBC, CNN) and helping Moms and Pops with their email in the hope that they'll actually begin reading it on a regular basis. I even introduced them to Youtube by playing some Johnny Horton videos for Pa and some Lucio Dalla for Ma. Youtube rocked. But you know what was really a big hit with both of them? This:



Temper, temper Bill. What a potty mouth on you! Besides his huffy snarl, I love how he looks at the watch he's not wearing when he starts to get really pissed. And of course, the swearing, followed by his fake friendly talk when he's forced to "play it out" live. I always knew there was a Big Angry hiding under that fact-fabricating-know-it-all-smirk of his. And what was he so upset about, anyway? He had like three lines to remember! Anyway, Moms, who for some reason likes this moron, got a real kick out of it.

I drove by my old high school and didn't recognize it. It'd been years since I'd seen the old digs up close. The building I remember was this ugly, drab strip of concrete, with an architecture inspired by Soviet-era East Berlin. From the outside the place looked like it had a cloud hanging over it, and you didn't exactly click your heels walking in there each day. What's it like now? I was blown away. Replacing the Communist gulag that I remember is an enormous brick building that looks like a tribute to Camden Yards. It's beautiful. Stylish and dare I say, ornate (as ornate as brick can look). Now it looks like a little brick village for learning. How nice for Generation Y. As if those spoiled, self-absorbed bastards needed any more indulgence. "There are no losers, kids! Everyone's a winner here at Kumbayah High!"

Washing your car is like bathing a lover. I spent some quality time with my car over the weekend. Real quality time. Too much time, some would say. She's been a little dirty and has needed a car wash for quite awhile. So on Sunday, I went to Walmart (yes, Walmart), picked up some car cleaning essentials -- soap, a huge sponge, Armor-All spray for the wheels and tires, and some soft microfiber towels -- and got to work. First, I hosed her down with water, making sure I covered every crevice. Mmmmm. Then I soaped up the sponge and worked her over real nice, covered her from top to bottom with gentle, circular strokes, rubbing out all the dirt spots. Awww yeah. Then I hosed her down again, making sure to get rid of the excess soap. Ohhhh baby. Then I cleaned her rims and tires with meticulous care, wiping away the grime until her wheels looked shiny and new. Finally, I gave her an all-over rubdown with the handtowels. When I was done, she looked amazing. And I felt like smoking a cigarette, even though I've never smoked a cigarette.

(I need to get some action soon. Seriously.)

In a related story, is it possible for anyone to look cool taking a picture next to their car? How 'bout if you use a cell phone camera and take a really grainy picture, one that makes it look as if you're making fun of yourself, doing it all nonchalant-like, all in jest? Would it be cool then?


No.

Suburban Olympics. In a related related story, after I was done washing the car, Dad and I had the damndest time trying to roll the hose back up onto the wheel-crank thingy. The day before, I'd tried to wash the car with just water and no soap and it didn't work. I unraveled a good 50 feet of hose to reach the car. Well, when I rolled the thing back up, I must have done a really bad job because on Day 2, when Dad and I tried to turn it back onto the spool, the hose was so kinked and tangled, like a ball of thick green yarn, that we exhausted ourselves trying to unravel the spool, than ravel it back up. We were there for 45 minutes and no dice. Two generations of family, a chemical engineer and a lawyer, and we couldn't do it. We'd never make it on The Amazing Race. The whole time I'm thinking, is this what suburban people do? Wrestle garden hoses? Spread mulch? Prune bushes? For goodness sake, at dinner on Sunday, all my mother could talk about was how she wanted to assassinate the chipmunk (or chipmunks) who were digging holes under the lawn and killing her new bushes. "I didn't spend all this money on landscaping so they could ruin it!" Then she started bitching at my father because he didn't set the chipmunk traps. Chipmunk traps! I'm gnawing through a piece of rabbit, trying to enjoy my dinner, and my mother goes all Bill Murray-in-Caddyshack on me, talking about killing chipmunks like it's her life's ambition. I was waiting for her to mention dynamite. Sister T. asked my mother whether the traps killed the chipmunks or took them alive. Mom: They kill them, what do you think? What does one do with the chipmunk traps after a chipmunk is caught, asked Sister T., who wasn't done wondering on the plight of the chipmunks. HE throws them out, responded Mom, jabbing a thumb at my father, who was busy chewing on his own piece of rabbit. He didn't even look up. Dinner at my house.

Last, but not least, Happy 2nd Birthday, Bloggy! I've been doing this blog thing for two years. It feels like yesterday that I was leaving snarky comments on the blogs of others and KG suggested that I start my own. And now here we are.