Headbangers Bawl

What I would like to know, seriously, is what kind of crack the folks over at Sony are smoking. See because, okay. I went into work at ShopRite on Saturday, not exactly thrilled at the prospect of working an 8-hour shift, but in a decent mood.

Decent quickly turned to AWESOME, however, when I heard Rich's voice a few feet from my register: "When did we start selling CDs?" When did we start selling CDs? This was news to me! And before I knew it, I was in seventh heaven, because one of the CDs was called "Metal Ballads!"

Now, I won't even try to front. I am an absolute sucker for hair bands. I was in junior high in the late '80s, so how could I help it? Sure, I listened to Debbie Gibson, and was in love with New Kids on the Block, mostly Donnie, because he was the bad boy, but the REALLY bad boys were all the dudes on MTV with the long, messy hair full of Aqua Net. Something about the combination of larger-than-life 'dos and leather just really got me, you know?

And that is why the Power Ballads were so key. The Power Ballads were hair bands' way of saying, "Yes, we are sexual energy incarnate, but we also have deep feelings." And that right there is every teenage girl's dream -- a sexy, misunderstood bad boy with a good heart and a large capacity for love! Because you know, he could talk a good game, about wanting girls, girls, girls and someone to talk dirty to (him), but what he really wanted was you -- that special girl who would totally just GET him and be able to say I love you (babe) without a sound, and also chill on the playground whilst discussing the plight of crying children.

Sure, I know better now. Or, ummm, maybe I still have a bit of a ways to go with the whole bad boy thing. But the point is that I was very excited that ShopRite was selling "Metal Ballads." Filled with anticipation, I grabbed the CD and brought it back to my register.

The cover was as excellent as you would expect:



There was a metal...I don't know what that thing is called. It's in lots of videogames, and the idea is that you don't want it to get you. Maybe a circular saw? Anyway, in front of that was a rose, to juxtapose sharp edges with soft romance, you see -- the formula for the great Power Ballad. Over this ingenious design were the words "METAL BALLADS," in jagged letters to represent the edginess of the whole production.

Deadly.

And it was only $6.98! I eagerly turned over the CD to examine the track listing, wondering which songs were soon to be filling my apartment with scratchy-voiced angst, paving the way for nostalgic melancholy for many a night.

The first song on the album was "Carrie" by Europe. Awesome! Europe earned my undying love with "The Final Countdown," a song featuring everything necessary in a perfect hair band single, right down to the nonsensical lyrics. I mean, I think he was comparing his love to a rocket ship? And there was some really dramatic synthesizer going on, and like, explosions, so who what's not to love? Really, my affection for "Carrie" does hinge heavily on my deep love for "Countdown," but it's cool. "Carrie" was exactly the kind of song I was hoping to find on "Metal Ballads." I was a tiny bit surprised that Europe was the first band on the album, as I always saw them as the Jessica Simpson to say, Def Leppard's Britney Spears, circa 1999. But whatever, I like "Carrie," no problem.

Second track: "I Saw Red" by Warrant. Hmm, don't know that song. When I think "slow Warrant song," I think "Heaven," but maybe "Metal Ballads" was taking a more avant-garde approach. Cool!

Next up was "I Live My Life For You" by Firehouse. Now, I won't lie. I somehow completely missed the fact that Firehouse was a real band, much less a metal band, although they are on all the '80s hair band sites, I am finding. All I knew of Firehouse was that they had that single, "Love of a Lifetime," which fit in perfectly with my Important Highschool Romance of 1992, in which every slow song had Deep Meaning, including Vanessa Williams's "Save the Best for Last," so lets just move on, shall we?

Bad English had the next song with "When I See You Smile." Really, I have no way of knowing if this is a legitimate pick or not. In the very late eighties into the very early nineties, there was a new type of band that came around, this Hair Band 2.0, which featured shorter -- but not short -- hair, less makeup, and deeper, soulful lyrics. Think Creed before Creed was Creed, and before Creed begat all of that mush-mouthed music that was to come ten years later. Although grunge overtook the music scene, I think Hair Band 2.0 was supposed to be the next wave of music for the new decade. And in this group I am including Damn Yankees, "Miles Away"-era Winger, and Bad English. I don't know if there is any validity to this compartmentalization, but it really does make a lot of sense in my mind, and which is to say that when I saw "When I See You Smile" on the "Metal Ballads" CD, my apprehension was steadily building, but I was still thinking I'd probably buy the CD. After all, we were not even halfway through; things were bound to get better!

Well not quite, because the fifth song was "A Man I'll Never Be" by Boston. I don't like Boston. To me, Boston sounds like everything bad about hanging out with musicians, with none of the good. There's something about the sound, like they are just a little too pleased with themselves, and one step away from saying that they know you had plans, but the guys are gonna come jam, and maybe you could just chill for awhile with that girl who hates you because you brush your hair sometimes and also don't own enough Ani DiFranco CDs.

Yeah okay, anyway. At this point, all was not lost. I was still holding out hope. Halfway through, things could turn around, couldn't they? I mean, we had still not seen Cinderella, even! I looked to the next track, thinking we were about to really kick it up a sexy notch, and sure enough, there was...

...Meat Loaf.

WTF!

Meat Loaf? Why? WHY! Is it like, because of "Bat Out of Hell," the makers of this CD thought, "People won't know! It's like Ozzy! Ozzy ate bats, and was the prince of darkness, and so people will think of that" and just whaaaaaaaaattttt??? So anyway, the song was "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad," and it was at this point that my brain began to melt, and the rest of it's all sort of a blur.

Thank God, because the next song was "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler. I'll let you all just think about that for a second.

Up next? What else, but Loverboy, with their Metal Classic, "Heaven In Your Eyes." You may better recognize Loverboy from their hit heavy metal song, "Working for the Weekend." They were extremely edgy.

But not as edgy as the band from the 9th track. Thats right, I'm talking about REO Speedwagon! I wasn't even allowed to listen to REO Speedwagon until I was 16, for fear that I would be too influenced by their suggestive lyrics, sick guitar riffs, and overall badassery. And "Can't Fight This Feeling" was just the metal-est of the bunch.

So obviously, the makers of "Metal Ballads" had just completely lost their shit at this point in like, every way. There is no other explanation for ANY of this. Or else they did the track-listing version of Babelfish, and plugged in all the info to churn out a bitchin' CD, but something along the way went terribly wrong because, seriously, you might think that it couldn't get any more bizarre.

You would be wrong.

The last track...

...on "Metal Ballads"...

...("Metal Ballads")...

...was "Eternal Flame."

By The Bangles.

And that was when my few remaining brain cells shut down, and I ran out of words.

KEEP ON ROCKING!


©2006

Sage Advice For Heterosexual Men: Lesson One

a. If you are overcome by an insatiable curiosity as to a woman's bra size, and simply cannot privately wonder about it to yourself and/or your cronies...just ask her. Bluntly. Don't try to be all *polite* about it. Don't say, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but..." Don't be coy. When you find yourself asking someone whom you've never met about her breast size, you really need to know that you left proprietary illusions behind miles ago.

b. If said woman politely declines your request, consider yourself lucky that she did not throw her drink in your face, especially when that is something she has always wanted to do. Carry on and do not, say, START GUESSING. Do not adopt a tone and expression of, "It's okay that you're shy."

c. While you're at it, there is no need to launch into an unsolicited monologue about what a "champion kisser" you are.

Good Crack

I do this thing where I think I'm real sick
But I won't go to the doctor to find out about it
'Cause they make you stay real still in a real small space
As they chart up your insides and put them on display
They'd see all of it, all of me, all of it

~ Rilo Kiley, "The Good That Won't Come Out"

I really, REALLY hate going to the doctor. So I must give props in a way to FirstCare Clinic in Baldwin. They dont even try to front, you know? First of all, they hung up on me three times when I called. I guess I wasn't coming in clearly, but I mean, they hung up RIGHT away. When I did finally get the receptionist to stay on the phone longer than half a second, she spoke to me like I was the biggest idiot in the world.

Then when I arrived, the "Rent" soundtrack was playing in the waiting room, and I'm thinking that as lovely as it may be, perhaps the music from a play about AIDS and poverty is not the MOST comforting thing you could be playing in a clinic specializing in patients who have no money.

So I was left to ponder this, and also try to figure out exactly what Ladies Home Journal was trying to say about Kirstie Alley, because on the cover, they were all, How Kirstie really lost the weight, spirituality, blah blah blah, and so I am wondering if maybe Scientology says "Stop being fat" in the same way that it says "Stop being depressed" and "Stop having labor pains," and I wish it could also say "Stop making stupid movies" and "Stop being creepy," but anyway, I open up the magazine, all curious to see how Kirstie really lost the weight, and before I can get to the article, there is an ad where she explicitly states that she lost the weight by dialing Jenny, and WHICH IS IT?

It was hard to concentrate; however, as not two minutes into my arrival, the entire staff began YELLING. I mean full-on arguing at high decibels back and forth and back and forth, and like, everyone was yelling, the doctor, the nurses, the receptionist, and I honestly couldn't decide whether to be annoyed that they were thwarting my Kirstie Alley weight-loss mystery solving, unsettled that my health was in the hands of this bunch of hooligans, or pleased by the awesomeness of it all. I settled for a combination of the three.

On to the examination room, where the nurse stuck something in my ear en route, then did some more stuff, and really it all happened very quickly, and the doctor came in like, RIGHT after, and I began to feel like this one regular who used to come into Red Lobster for lunch and sit in the hut, and he'd get the lobster stuffed mushrooms as an appetizer and fried food as the meal, and on a normal day when the restaurant was running its usual 57 minutes behind, with half the necessary number of servers and cooks, then everything would go at a fairly normal pace for this guy, since he was alone and fried food cooks fast, but sometimes, for whatever reason, the restaurant would be empty except for this guy, and there would be a less-than-brilliant server taking care of him, and you'd walk by and see his bread and salad come by, and then two seconds later, his meal come by, and then finally the lobster stuffed mushrooms come by, because although you would think that you'd get your appetizer first at Red Lobster, you would be wrong, and the poor guy would just sit there at little table 36, looking all befuddled at his table full of food, and that is how I was feeling as Dr. Crack entered the room.

Now Dr. Crack is almost as famous in Baldwin as Bradley and Eddie Collins. If you don't have insurance, he'll just go into his closet o' magic and find you 45 doses of whatever you need, and if you've been a good girl or boy, he'll toss in some codeine cough syrup. I personally had never experienced the magic of Dr. Crack, but I tried as hard as I could to convey that I was in pain. Dude, I've heard nothing but wonderful things about this codeine cough syrup. "Now Judith, don't become a drug addict," my mother admonished me when I shared this with her, but as I told her, if I were a drug addict, I wouldn't have to be banking on once-in-a-lifetime visits with Dr. Crack; I'd totally have my own hookup, you know? My mom didn't really care for this line of reasoning, I don't think.

So but anyway, I guess I'd built up Dr. Crack in my own mind as some kind of prescription pinata straight out of "Requiem for a Dream," because I was completely unprepared for what came next!

1) Follow-up questions.
2) "I'll run some x-rays."
3) "Maybe we'll do some blood tests."

What was THIS? I don't get that at my regular doctor; never mind Dr. Crack! So all right, then. I could get down with this responsible health care business. He told me to take all clothes off from the waist up, and put the robe on, and the lady nurse would come in to get me so I wouldn't feel sexually harassed, and then he left the room.

I wish I'd worn one of my pretty bras, I thought to myself as I prepared for the x-ray room, until I was immediately hit with the realization that if this is what my life had come down to, picking out pretty bras to better impress Dr. Crack, then I might as well take one of those sterile needles in the corner, stick it in my jugular, and call it a day. Because that is reaching new lows of patheticity, even for me.

Then I started getting all melancholy, and all the reasons I hate going to the doctor with every fiber of my being rose to the surface as I walked around the fluorescent-lit hallway in my sad little paper robe with no bra on, feeling completely vulnerable and helpless as the nurse led me into this dark room where I had to keep adjusting my position and holding my breath so that she could take x-rays of my lungs and sinuses. The whole thing just felt like something out of TV, like there should be some serene yet foreboding classical music playing on the score, and then the gloom set in, as I realized I was never going to have anyone to drive me home from the doctor's office, and would surely die alone.

Opting not to burst into tears in front of the once-yelling, now-nice nurse, even after she told me to feel better and seemed to mean it, I waited to cry until I got back to the examination room. Once my clothes were back on, I was okay, so maybe the robe was like the Cloak of Invisibility from Harry Potter, only this was the Cloak of Melancholy.

Dr. Crack came back (hee!), and pronounced my chest x-rays fine, but my sinus ones not so much, so now I am one of those people who get sinus infections, I guess, which is annoying, like I hope I don't start talking about my sinuses a lot, and he wrote me a prescription for decongestive cough syrup, which, if I am not mistaken, is narcotic-free, so of course I was very sad about this turn of events. And he was very nice. It was definitely the craziest doctor's office I've ever been in, but I think I will go back, because: I'd like to see if the robes really do have magical powers; I want that codeine cough syrup, dammit! And I never DID get to the bottom of how Kirstie really lost the weight.

©2006

Thoughts While Popping My "Alias" Cherry

- There are groceries...and there are liquor bottles...and there is a slushee machine? All in one place? That's brilliant! Why don't we have these stores in New York?

- Yay, Sean! Hi, Sean!

- Hot damn, Sydney! I knew you were in amazing shape, but I didn't think a real live person could pull off that neon blue rubber minidress! Holy crap!

- See, okay, how can I properly grieve and be all dramatic if I don't have a bathtub to cry in while listening to chick music in dim lighting?

- J.J. Abrams is great at finding actresses who can have breakdowns like, out of nowhere. So why hasn't Alyson Hannigan been on any of his shows yet?

- Am I the only one who doesn't really get the whole Michael Vartan thing? I was all prepared to love him, 'cause he has that cute/smart thing going on, but he's leaving me cold. He's kinda smug looking, no?

- People on TV seem to go visit graves a lot more than people in real life. Or do I just know a lot of uncaring people?

- Okay, yes J.J., I know you love "La Cienega Just Smiled," but could ya find a new song, maybe? You played it on "Felicity" like three times, and now here it is on "Alias." And it's not exactly helping that you're using it to background another "guy friend is in love with girl who doesn't like him *that way*" plot. I mean, really.

- Okay, yeah, J.J.? Despite my previous complaint, I think you do a truly excellent job of soundtracking your shows. However. Please stop using Sarah Mclachlan. Don't get me wrong, I love a lot of her music, but for some reason, although you can find really random stuff by other bands no one has every heard of, when it comes to the Mclachlan, you pick the stuff that nobody EVER wants to hear again, least of all in emotional scenes that could be over-the-top fantastic with a different song. Thanks.

- Okay, don't get me wrong, I think Jennifer Garner is totally hot, but she is a bit mannish in ways, not to mention insanely ripped. So I think it's going to take me awhile to get used to the fact that her voice really IS that high.

- So, it's official. "Alias" was the bastion to my becoming J.J. Abrams's bitch. I don't see it turning into the utter obsession that "Lost" is for me, and I don't think it will occupy the special place in my heart that "Felicity" does, but I like it. A lot. Yay!

©2006

Punk Rock

The Weekend's Punk Rock Awards Go To...

The man at the Hess station, for refusing to help me on Saturday night, despite the fact that it was freezing, snowing, and blustery, and despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, and despite the fact that the sign on the pump said "PLEASE SEE CASHIER."

The guy in the car behind me during the snowstorm, for deciding that I wasn't driving fast enough, tearing around me, spending a good 10 seconds driving on the wrong side of the road, then hitting a patch of ice and spinning around and around.

Plainview, for not at all bothering to plow Old Country Road, possibly the busiest street in the town, after the dreadful weather we had Saturday night/Sunday morning, adding a fun dune-buggy effect to my driving experience the next day.

The man at my register, for smirkily acknowledging that he was disobeying the express lane rules, and then refusing to leave even after I told him he should go on another lane.

Me, for telling the man he should go on another lane.

Chip, for managing to smash to the ground: my wine glasses, wine decanter, and lamp, all in one fell swoop.

Dr. von Rockenstein, for vomiting twice Sunday morning, then immediately trotting to her dish and meowing for breakfast.

Every girl at Field of Dreams, for defying laws of physics with chin-level cleavage.

Babz, for drunkenly throwing her rifle at the hunting videogame, after the bucks evaded her yet again.



And the Ultimate Punk Rock Award goes to...

Megan, for:

- getting drunk at Stingers on Saturday night
- leaving at 4:30am
- heading out to walk home in the brutal snowstorm
- thinking better of it
- walking to a police station
- politely and nonchalantly asking the cops for a ride home
- getting one!

©2006

Chips In My Hand + Chips On My Shoulder = Suspension From School??

"Oh, so it's chips all around, is it? Someone must have bought the party pack." ~ Spike

Can I just say that I got suspended in 7th grade because I wouldn't throw away my potato chips? True story.

Let me begin by saying that I went to South Shore Christian, a very strange school. I loved it, and I wouldnt change anything about having gone there for a second, but every now and then, they went a bit wack-a-doo Babz. So, the year was 1987. My age, 12. And I guess they had just instituted this policy that didn't allow the students to take food out of the cafeteria after the bell had rung. Why? I dont know. It probably had something to do with sex.

Anyway, so one autumn afternoon, I had purchased Cottage Fries with my lunch. However, as the lunch hour, or rather, lunch 40 minutes, wore on, I grew full and didn't desire my snack any longer. I will save it for after school, I told myself. OR SO I THOUGHT. On my way out, I was stopped by the National Guard, or rather, Mrs. Melillo the music teacher, who informed me that I was not going anywhere with those chips! But they weren't opened, I explained. No matter, I was not to leave with them. I was to throw them out. WHY? That was a waste of money and food, and totally bureaucratic, in my humble, 12-year-old opinion.

I guess I got pissy and smart mouthed, as was/is my wont, for during the very next period (Biology with Mrs. Murray), I was called out of class by Reverend Cole, the principal. He was all serious, telling me that I had been very rude to Mrs. Melillo, that it wasn't her fault I couldn't keep my Cottage Fries, and that I was not to backtalk to teachers, and...

...I was being suspended from school.

?!?!?!

I mean, wait, WHAT? Despite my temper and tendency to mouth off to authority figures when I am threatened, I am usually able to objectively assess situations after the fact, and was even then, and be like, "Okay, that sucks, but it was my bad." Only I wouldn't have said "my bad" in '87, because it had not yet crept into the vernacular, at least not at South Shore, but the point is, to this day, I maintain that suspension was just A BIT MUCH. And it was an AT-HOME suspension, no less! That was like, the serious couterpart to the in-school suspension.

I must give my mother mad props for her handling of the situation. She of all people knew what a smartass I could be, but she also knew that suspending me was beyond ridiculous and crackheaded of the higher ups at good old SSCS. She didnt even tell my dad, and outside of the suspension itself, I didnt get in trouble at all.

In fact, the suspension itself ended up being quite lovely. All I did the entire day was stay in my room and read Sweet Valley High. Bed, books, and rain on an October day? Best. Punishment. Ever!

©2006

Waiting To Inhale

"Quitting smoking is easy. I've done it a thousand times."

~ Mark Twain

I was hoping to write an insightful blog about the psychological ramifications of quitting smoking. Because I am. Quitting. Yes, again. Shut up. But anyway, I cant write insightfully, because I am finding it utterly impossible to focus on anything for more than like, 5 seconds at a time. So rather than be deep, I will take you on a guided tour through my withdrawal! Sounds fun, no?

Saturday Night/Sunday, 3am: I lost my almost-full pack of cigarettes while inebriated at Mcbrides. This was very annoying, as I had actually not been smoking like a chimney all night, and was looking forward to having a few more before heading home. So I spent an antsy hour alternating between denial and rage, hoarding the cigarette Aiden had so kindly given me until the last possible moment.

Sunday: I blamed everything wrong on my hangover, trying to trick myself into not noticing that I wasn't smoking. But it made sense to try to quit this weekend. I'd been planning on it anyway, and given that I a) lost my pack, b) am completely broke, and c) had Monday off to hide from society, it seemed like the best plan of attack. So Sunday wasn't so bad, kind of hangover-y, but not withdrawal-y.

Monday: Well. Monday began like Sunday, in that I felt hungover, despite the fact that I didn't drink on Sunday. But whatever, I could deal. Got some work done, no bother, no bother, la la la. Really, I can use laziness to my advantage in my apartment when it comes to smoking. Because do I really want to go upstairs, around the house, and two blocks down in the nasty weather just to smoke a cigarette? Well, yes, but its much closer to a toss-up than it is in...

...my car, which is where the final bastion of sweet denial fell. I'd been called into ShopRite unexpectedly. Good, because it meant time and a half; bad, because not only was I busy with other things, but now I had to deal with habit demons! So I drove to work, prepared to miss the cigarette in the car, and later on break. What I was NOT prepared for was the shwoop into dreamland! All of a sudden, I was on the 135, minding my own business, awake from a good night's sleep and alert from a good cup of coffee. Adding cinnamon to the coffee grinds makes me feel domestic and also reminds me of "Family Guy." Even though that's nutmeg. ANYway, so Im fine, but out of nowhere, heard this dreamy ringing, and everything seemed to drop, like when you're at the top of Free Fall, and I couldn't really feel anything. It was totally like a dream, to the point where I started wondering if maybe it was a dream. My dream world is extremely vivid, and I often have dreams about driving. However, it then hit me that perhaps wondering if I was, in fact, conscious while driving was perhaps not the most awesome thing, so I slapped myself in the face. I still couldn't really feel anything, but I was at least being proactive.

It wasn't until I got to work that I realized I was probably experiencing the same tripping-out withdrawal that I've known others to go through. I've quit smoking before, but that's never happened to me. And knowing may be half the battle, but it didn't stop me from behaving like an overall freak at work. Noises were bugging me out, dude, and other stimuli were alternately cracking me up, pissing me off, and scaring me. Either that or I was standing still, slackjawed, staring into space. When dealing with the customers, I felt like Anya from "Buffy," trying to pass myself off as a normal human person, with the results ranging from humorous to unsettling.

Monday Night/Tuesday Morning: I knew that sleeping wouldn't be easy, but I actually fell asleep rather quickly, and soundly. That is, until I woke up to a smashing of glass, the results of Chip's nighttime adventures. Casualties: a crystal candlestick and a cheese plate from my grandmother. And also the rest of my night's sleep, which was filled with dreams of being a spy.

Tuesday: By far, the worst day yet. I knew that it would be. Weekdays are an absolute minefield of smoking associations, from the Route 24/Powell Avenue hellhole of stopped traffic on the 135 while running late for work, to the awesome 10am festivities of Coffee Cart Man, cigarettes, and friends, to SCW with Babz at noon, to lunchtime where the world is my ashtray oyster, to 3:30 cigarette breaks, and...well, you can see why quitting is harder for me this time than it has been in the past. And today's been BRUTAL. My legs have been strangely tingly yet numb; my insides feel sort of sour and like theyre vibrating, and I really just want to sink my nails into something. Basically, I feel equal parts animal and master. I WANT something, and the only thing stopping me from having it is...me. Its a supremely bizarre experience.

So, we'll see what happens. I'm not saying Ill never smoke again. But if I do, I want it to be on my own terms. A conscious indulgence of something that's not the best thing for me, but that I could honestly take or leave. Like Godiva truffles! But now is not that time. OBVIOUSLY.

©2006