Cuz he wore horrible dayglo suits and sang horrible songs in the late seventies and eighties, but we are here to tell you we love Rod Stewart because he wrote "Every Picture Tells a Story" and "Maggie May", two of the best coming-of-age rock songs ever. We also love "Handbags and Gladrags" and every goddamn song the Faces ever recorded. So if we ever see Sir Rodney (he's not really a Sir, except to us) walking down the street we'll embrace him and say "Thank you, Mr. Rod Stewart, for giving us the gift of your songs, excepting "Hot Legs" of course, that one was a real stinker and somebody ought to have punched you in the prominent schnoz in order to dissuade you from recording it, nor do we care much for your recent albums covering American standards but if you want to waste your time recording oldies so be it, you totally deserve the right to do whatever you want with your glorious voice, but we will always love you for capturing the way we felt at 18, or wanted to feel anyway, because we never had a Maggie May or got "arrested for inciting a peaceful riot" stuck in landlocked Littlestown as we were, where there were no "slant-eyed" ladies around to teach us the Asian ways of love on the Peking ferry, but we certainly did spend some time in front of our mirrow feeling inferior, you were spot on there... anyway, we want to say bless you for all you've given us, like when you sing "Make the best out of the bad just laugh it off/Ha!/You didn't ask to come here anyway" which is the best philosophy of life we've ever encountered in a popular song. So let your detractors detract, we will defend you with our life, except once again for "Hot Legs" of course, which is like the worst song ever and you should be ashamed of having recorded it, you rooster-haired genius/putz."
As a medical experiment. We wanted to know what effect sustained exposure to the El Lay supergroup would have on a rat's central nervous system. The results (see E. Blalock, T. Farsical, U. Failure, et al, "Baleful effects of Eagles Music on Laboratory Rats", New England Journal of Medicine, vol. 53, January 2012), were positively alarming. Most of the rats either curled up and died or chewed their own ears off, something we scientists conducting the experiment didn't think was even possible. On the other hand, a small subset of the subjects adapted to repeated listenings of "One of These Nights". They sprouted ponytails, and when allowed to pull either a lever containing food or a lever containing turquoise jewelry, invariably choose the latter. We noticed that they were sluggish (the so-called "Peaceful Easy Effect") for a period of 12 to 24 hours, then fell to bickering amongst themselves over (1) who deserved songwriting credit for "Hotel California" and (2) who was going to get to sit next to David Geffen in his Laurel Canyon hot tub. They finally moved to separate ends of the cage, where each commenced work on a solo album.
Next month we plan to reproduce the experiment using Rush music. We're interested in seeing if you can induce Geddy Lee Syndrome (i.e., the tendency to sing Ayn Rand-inspired lyrics in a piercingly high voice) in laboratory rats. Thus far the syndrome has only occurred in humans who have had long-term exposure to the group. We'll keep you posted.
And so far Kim Fowley, the Hollywood huckster/svengali who brought us the likes of the Runaways, is stealing the show. Our favorite Kim Fowley story takes place after the Manson killings, when Fowley found out that some of the incarcerated cult leader's girls were still living at Spahn Ranch. Fowley drove to the ranch, hopped out of the car, and said "I'm your new leader!"
She is so beautiful, she made my chihuahua go blind. When I'm in her presence, I wish I was a petting zoo. What else can I tell you? When I ask her if she could ever love me, she punches me in the nose. She is a multicar traffic accident, an unexploded bomb, the Cuisinart that makes pulp of my aching heart. I love her madly, and by that I mean like an insane person, but she passes me by on her way to her palace without so much as a glance in my forlorn direction. If I could win her over by cutting off my legs at the hips, I would. I would totally do it. There is a place I know where her portrait hangs on all four walls and the very earth trembles out of sheer love. I know I am but a mere slave in a dirty loincloth but I know her National Anthem by heart. "And the admirer who watched, was so gallantly screaming."
We'll happily tell anybody willing to listen how much we despise the Olympics, and how they bring out the worst in American flag clothing, frenetic flag waving, and general jingoism. We've been good in previous years in avoiding them altogether, often by clapping our hands over our ears when the conversation turned to the Olympics and going "La La La La La". But this year, something happened. Namely, we were forced to watch them, as they seemed to be on the television every time we went to the gym. And we--erk--actually found ourselves caught up in them. (Especially in the really sexy events, like women's beach volleyball and women's water polo.)
But the worst part, and we still haven't gotten over it, is how effortlessly and naturally we found ourselves rooting for the American teams. It was totally disheartening. Turns out we're a patriot! And no better than the flag wavers we so despise. No matter how hard we tried to get ourselves to root for the non-U.S. team, it was no go. In our heart of hearts we wanted the American team to get the gold, shameful as it is to admit in public.
So there, that's our confession. We're glad they're almost over, and hopefully we'll be able to forget our horrible lapse in good taste. At least until the next Olympics, when we'll burn with shame all over again.
Wow--this is news to us. We're proud that somebody saw fit to turn the article we wrote on 19th Century graverobber Vigo Jansen into a play. Jansen was a remarkable figure, whose graverobbing exploits won him morbid celebrity as "The King of Ghouls" or "The Resurrectionist King." Sadly, laws allowing physicians legal access to cadavers put Jansen out of business, and his attempt to turn his career into a stage show ended in disaster. He wound up committing suicide in New York city. Someday we're going to try our hand at a novel centered around Jansen, that is if somebody doesn't beat us to it.
When you're as far gone as we are, nerves wise, seemingly innocent things take on a sinister cast. Like the ice cream truck that circles our neighborhood around 4:00 every afternoon. Ice cream truck music is inherently horror movie creepy, but what really inspires dread about this ice cream truck is that it only plays Christmas songs. In the summertime. We're generally sharing the pool, at that workaday hour, with just Goran the Russian lifeguard and a woman with one arm. Which brings us to another thing that's freaking us out, namely the recent disquieting spate of one-armed women we've been seeing around. You go years without seeing a one-armed woman and suddenly there are one-armed women everywhere and it's suspicious-making we tell you, suspicious-making as all hell. There's the one-armed woman we saw recently in the CVS Pharmacy. And another one-armed woman we see regularly on Mt. Pleasant Avenue. And the pool's one-armed woman. It could be coincidence. Or, and we know this is going to make us sound paranoid, there's a League of One-Armed Women and they've been commissioned to follow us around. But to what purpose, is what we would like to know. We have half a mind to confront one of these women and say "What do you want from us?" Not that we're so naive as to think they'd tell us. No, they'd just pretend not to know what we were talking about. That's the way it is with one-armed women, they're good at acting all innocent when, in fact, they are not innocent at all. They're part of a one-armed cabal designed to keep tabs on yours truly. Just yesterday we were at the pool and the one-armed woman was there too, doing the dead man's float and pretending not to notice our existence. She even had her eyes closed. But we weren't fooled. She wasn't relaxing. She was keeping us under surveillance. We could have left, but we refuse to be cowed by the League of One-Armed Women. We will not be intimidated by their presence wherever we go. We will not, we repeat we will not, surrender.