Sundays with Stretchy Pants

It’s Feckless Friday!

Way back when I worked at the Christian bookstore, I read a book called Highway to Hell or something like that and it was all about breaking down the evils in pop music so you would know what doors to the underworld were being opened in your soul every time you belted out some Whitney Houston in the car. I’m not lying. The only thing that stuck with me out of that book (I think it was out of that book, but it could have been any other book I read during that time of zealotry) was that pretty much any song that talks about dancing is actually talking about m@sturbating and/or s3xing it up.* It’s true. Look at Madonna’s “Get into the Groove” for a minute:

Only when I’m dancing can I feel this free
At night I lock the doors, where no one else can see
I’m tired of dancing here all by myself
Tonight I wanna dance with someone else

She’s so happy! And, well, sad because she can’t feel free without, well, you know. Um…and this was clearly written before she decided it was ok to unlock the doors so everyone could see. I think I just proved that book’s point. *ahem*

Anyway, the feckless part of this is that I like to use my “knowledge” to ruin Bryan’s perceptions of songs. I can’t help it because it’s funny. When we’re in the car, it’s not uncommon for me to lean over and say, “You know, Ted Nugent’s “Fred Bear” is actually about touching yourself with a toilet brush. In the woods. With an old man watching. I read it in a book, so I know it’s true.” He’s not a hunter, though, so that info actually made him like that song more. So that was nice of me.

Do you ruin things for people you love all the time? Did this post ruin your breakfast? If so, post your own Friday fecklessness anywhere you can! You are not alone!

*The Divinyl’s “I Touch Myself,” on the other hand is really about dancing. She dances when she thinks of you. Isn’t that sweet? She honestly does.

Dear Melodie,

It was lovely to see you again in West Virginia. Mike and Tracy love you and PJ, and we can see why. Congratulations on selling your house. I understand why you’re sad about it, though. A house is a very emotional thing, especially when you built it yourself and brought a baby home to it. I hate to see such a sweet person sad even for a minute, so here is something to cheer you up:

I hope this picture of Bizarro Jon Bon Jovi and Bizarro Joan Jett going to prom gives you a good chuckle.

Sincerely,

Bizzaro Jon Bon Jovi’s Little Sister

P.S. I know he sings really well now, but back then he would put his earphones on and sing along to whatever, and the heinous sound made me cry in terror. It sounded like famine, disease, misery, poverty, and painful death. He could play the guitar, though.

Dear Mike,

You can’t tie a dirty sweat sock around my nose, wait until I fall asleep and put horseradish in my mouth, flick me on the back of my head with your sausage fingers that feel like a small lead pipe, pull the arms of my sweatshirt in such a way so you can tie the ends together and then I can’t move my arms, stick your nasty feet in my face while you giggle with glee and I scream in horror, and you can’t eat all the good cereal in one sitting all the way from West Virginia. So there.

Love,

Abby

P.S. Thanks for working so hard on your singing cuz now you rock the house in a big way. I can’t even believe it, but it’s true. I love you! Don’t hurt me. I only posted this for Melodie and you know you want to bring her joy.

My hairstyle might say Leather Tuscadero, but everything else says Michael Jackson, all the way.

My first concert. My first bedroom poster. My first celebrity letter-writing experience. My first fan club. My first cassette bought with my own money. My first reason to stay up late to watch Friday Night Videos. My first reason to carry a portable tape player around with me. My first reason to dance in front of the mirror. My first love.

The first thing I ever won was tickets to the Jackson Victory Tour. Packy’s Pizza in Chesaning had a drawing and very late one night while my sister and I were babysitting, we got the phone call. I don’t know who called, but my sister answered the phone and had to wake me up to tell me. I was too tired to be excited, but I think I shit myself when it finally sunk in. I went to the Silverdome with my dad and I didn’t even mind that it was all the Jacksons. It was the shit, man. I still have this picture disc and it’s never been played:

The first time I scraped together my very own money with the intention of buying something specific besides candy, I bought Off the Wall on cassette. I already had Thriller and Victory and I was at the point where I needed MORE! I had the glove, I had all of the pins, I had a concert t-shirt, I had his new music, I fiercely coveted the red leather “Beat It” jacket and tried it on every time I went to the mall. There was nothing else to buy, so I bought Off the Wall. And I carried my first portable tape player around and played it outside until I knew all the words.  And then I put Thriller back in and danced on a picnic table in front of a window until my neighbor saw me and I got embarrassed.

I remember fighting with my cousin over the words to “Beat It!” She said it said “funny,” when clearly it said “funky.”

I remember watching the news and learning about an old celebrity who had died. I don’t remember who it was, but my parents were both kind of like, “NO! I can’t believe he’s dead!” I very clearly remember that seeing my parents react like that made me realize that Michael Jackson would die some day and it would be on the news and I would be an adult and I would be so sad.

I loved him in the maniacal way that 8-year-old girls love celebrities and I don’t think even my love for Eddie Vedder compares to how I felt about Michael Jackson. Nobody compared to him back then. Even my brother, with his heavy metal leanings, learned how to do the Moonwalk and then taught me and my sister. And today I’m teaching it to my kids.

I hate to break this to everybody, but Journey is now an oldies band. It’s true. Maybe this isn’t a surprise to you, but it certainly is to me.

I had one of those holy-shit-I’m-as-old-as-my-parents-were-when I-thought-they-were-so-old and-now-I-realize-that-they-weren’t-so-old moments yesterday.  Has that ever happened to you? Jarring.

*sigh* The girls and I were in the car yesterday and Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” came on the radio. Of course I turned it up and started singing because that’s my favorite thing to do. Then I heard Lena singing with me and it made me think of driving around with my parents on Saturday nights listening to “Solid Gold Saturday Night” on the Pacer radio (If you’ve heard that radio show, I bet you can’t just read the words “Solid Gold Saturday Night.” You have to sing them, don’t you?  It’s ok, I do too.) I used to sing along with my parents all the frickin’ time! Even when I didn’t know the words. But those songs were well and truly old, right? Songs from my youth can’t possibly be considered well and truly old by my children. I thought about that and then I googled it. And now I frickin’ hate the google. Always telling me stuff I don’t wanna know. Know-it-all douche.

I was 6 when “Don’t Stop Believin’” came out. My mom was 6 when one of my all-time favorite oldies came out:

=

So, by my math, Journey=Chuck Berry. Think about that! I’m just going to assume that my math is wrong and keep going ahead with the idea that my parents are old now and they’ve always been old, while I, on the other hand, have always been young and will continue to be young. Seriously, tell me there’s something special about songs from the 50s and their “oldies” quality. It’s not the same as when a child of today hears Journey. I mean, it’s not the same, is it? Is it?

My brother does this thing where he plays his guitar and harmonica and sings good songs and stuff. He’s going to do it at Gresso’s in Columbus on April 10th or 11th. Do you wanna come see? I’ll be there! If that doesn’t sweeten the deal, I don’t know what will.

Here’s a mellow sample. He does less mellow, too.  And his own stuff. It’s all good. That reminds me, I saw a comedian once say, “I think it’s unfair that Neil Young can sing, play guitar, and play harmonica all at the same time and everybody loves it and he’s a serious artist and everything, but if he were to add a pair of cymbals to his knees, then he’d just be a moron.” Here’s my brother, sans cymbals: