Thursday, May 05, 2005  

They Hit Me Because They Love Me

I have a certain friend who is something of a muckety muck with the Red Sox. His mucketiness is such that he is, in fact, getting a World Series ring as a thank you for his services. Last night, after tricking me into a bar, he held me down, poured Black and Tans down my throat and said, "You know, you'll never see your dad's eyes light up with pride like when he sees the family name on a World Series ring." Maybe so. I'm sure it's comparable to when he sees your name and face on a third generation photocopied flyer for "Comedy Show and Free Appetizers" at a biker bar in Weymouth.

I'm not actually in Weymouth this week. Truth be told, I'm in Beverly, at some speakeasy called The Pickled Onion, and athough my Spidey sense doth tingle, I do respect any bar honest enough to put "pickled" in their name. Show's tonight, 9:00 pm, and that's it for promotion.

In re: the Avril Lavigne Incident, my wife and friends are so goddamn hip and musical that I'm embarrassed to even talk tunes with them; they all grew up in a big city, with a selection of cool radio stations, with cutting edge formats and knowledgeable DJ's. I grew up listening to KILO-94 in Colorado Springs, which somehow managed to pack 28 hours worth of Pink Floyd into a 24 hour day. Sure, you Bostonians know the Pixies and Mission of Burma, but I have yet to meet a one of you that knows that if you look at Ronnie James Dio album covers upside down, the "Dio" actually spells "Devil." And Steve Luc, I see you composing a "Well, I grew up in Oklahoma, and I still managed to know good music" comment in your head; you are an exceptional case and an indie savant, if not entirely rock autistic, so just delete that sumbitch. I tried, man. I tried. I knew there was other stuff out there, and late at night, I'd work the knobs on my parents' stereo and try to tune in the "progressive rock" station from Denver like an East German trying to find the Voice of America in 1968. I'd get massive static and could only pick out a band name here and there, never any actual music, and even back then I was too cheap to buy records based on band names alone (Butthole Surfers notwithstanding).

The point is that I'm like a battered woman when it comes to buying CD's, because of the aforementioned wife and friends. Every time I buy something, they gather in a circle and laugh and point. It's like Lord of the Flies. I download some Blue Oyster Cult, and Sam Walters smashes me in the head with a rock and takes my conch, the skinny Spanish ratfuck. So now I shop online and load and unload my shopping cart about a hundred times going, "But what if it makes them hurt me again? They're right; I am too stupid. Maroon 5, you got me hit and made me wear sunglasses!?"

But I had some gift certificates to kill off, and by God, I wanted some new music.

It's inevitable that a man my age won't know every song out there, and it's normal that I haven't heard of every new band, but man, you know you're getting old when there are entire genres of music you've never heard of. Emo? Crunk? What the fuck? (As near as I can tell, emo is like if Al-Qaida kidnapped a punk band and made them play through their set and then said, "Okay, let's do it again from the top, but this time, fag it up a little, will you?" and crunk is any song that features L'il John saying "Ye-ah").

So how'd I do? Black Eyed Peas Elephunk, Alkaline Trio Good Mourning, Green Day American Idiot, and (this is where the punching starts) My Chemical Romance Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, the latter of which prompted my loving bride to put the baby down, laugh in my face and ask, "How OLD are you?"

Comment away, but remember, you promised never with a closed fist. NEVER WITH A CLOSED FIST.