Tony Orlando, what the hell is your deal?
See, this is why it is never really a good idea to try and relive poignant child memories by rummaging trough old piles of crap. And by that, of course I mean, fondly sorting through mementos that have been carefully and tenderly preserved in the back of the bathroom closet, along with various hair crimpers, Tiger Beat magazines from the early seventies,, and some dried out tubes of Camphor Ice. (Which are going for ten bucks a piece, give or take, on eBay, for some reason. I guess nostalgic huffing, or something.)
Also, said Tiger Beats just happen to be autographed by Has-Beens such as David Soul and The Bay City Rollers, who apparently need to supplement their retirement by contracting with “fan conventions” such as Chiller Con in Northern New Jersey (God’s Real Country.)
Not too shabby, collectible-wise, although I wish I could have gotten Hutch to sign a pamphlet for The National Domestic Violence Hotline, but cest le vie. At least I got Horshack a few weeks before he dropped dead of AIDS. That was a bit of a morbid coupe. Who could have imagined Ron Palillio was gay besides everyone?
Anyway, sometimes I get nostalgic for the early seventies. Fingers crossed that the Zoloft will take care of that. In the meantime, it was that time of year again for me to dig out the old forty-fives that I bogarted from the dead older siblings. (It doesn’t matter that I’ve always been the ‘sickly one.” I’m still managing to outlive everyone. Apparently, I’m Highlander.)
Among these records was the precious jewel of Knock Three Times. Yes, one of my earliest fond memories is of Tony Orlando in full unrequited stalker mode.
Knock Three Times.
On the ceiling, no less.
Let’s look at this from the perspective of the poor woman who caught Mr. Orlando’s creepy eye while taking out her trash or something. The fact is that I’d have to climb on a damn chair to do this maneuver, thus endangering my supposed comeliness by falling on my ass, unless I got a broomstick or something, in which case, why bang on the ceiling when I could just swing it upside Tony’s head, thus saving me a lot of grief, not to mention no more having to listen to crazy crooning from my psycho neighbor.
No court in the land would convict me, plus, I just prevented Tie a Yellow Ribbon from being unleashed on an unsuspecting,soon to be karaoke-loving world, so I should actually get a ticker tape parade and a gift certificate from Boscov’s.
Hell, it’s bad enough I am living in this three story walk-up in the shittiest part of town, making two dollars above minimum wage while I attend college online trying to make something out of my dead-end life. Now I also have to deal with the lunatic upstairs who thinks that by banging on the pipes and doing some mating-ritual flamenco dance over my head that I will someday throw myself into his waiting arms and let him fuck me like a jackhammer.
Let me emphasize, there is absolutely nothing romantic about your neighbor staring at you through a hole he drilled in his bathroom floor. And I’m pretty sure that’s kind of illegal in most states. Except maybe for Texas, where as long as said hole is large enough to insert your penis, you’re good to go.
And another thing. (Yes, I’m a female with a computer keyboard and a large kcup machine, so there is always going to be another thing.) So, just when did men get together and decide that the best way to win a woman’s heart is to lay bare her greatest flaw, thus making her feel exposed, shamed, and self-conscious, and then tell her it’s cool. That he’d fuck her disgusting, skanky ass (in the dark, of course) regardless?
My Funny Valentine is the granddaddy of this crap. Nothing makes a woman hornier, it seems, than to tell her that her looks are so laughable that they would probably cause a camera to projectile vomit.
Now before the “Y-Chromo-Disabled Lobby” raises any gender bias objections, citing examples such as, Just My Bill, or Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man O’Mine (that’s debateable), let’s be honest:
Men are stupid, lazy, crass, and boring.
And guys really don’t care if she knows it. (They don’t “care” in general, after all. Unless the liquor store closes early, or “their” team loses at some asinine game. Then it’s Shakespearean Tragedy on a platter.)
No, as long as she keeps putting out, or at least keeps cooking dinner, all is well, and she can sing about what a jerk he is to her broken-heart’s content. Pass the ketchup.
My favorite artists from the 80’s are not above this nonsense, much as it pains me to admit. (Though, not as much as it pains me to admit that Billy Joel is one of my favorite artists from the 80’s.)
“I don’t want clever conversation.”
Really now? So, incessant twaddle about “Twilight” is fine because he doesn’t have to pay attention to a damn thing she has to say? The only thing better would be if she had her larynx ripped out in some sort of “accident” and couldn’t speak at all. Perfect relationship, eh Billy?
Even demigod, Sprinsteen, got in on this act, which breaks my heart to this day.
Jersey Girl was “no beauty, but hey, she was alright.”
Talk about damning with faint praise. Good lord. She’s already from Jersey. Hasn’t her self-esteem been throttled enough?
Love ya, man, but Bruce, have you ever even heard of a mirror??
Speaking of low self-esteem. Angel of the Morning? Meet Gentle on My Mind.
It’s got to be really difficult having sex while hanging nailed to that cross, eh, Hon? It’s always good beg thankfully for scraps in a relationship. No need to bother him with those silly “forgotten words and bonds.” No, touching your cheek before he leaves makes it all totally worth it. (Leaving the money on the nightstand also helps.)
I was going to rationalize that there will always be a certain number of traitors in the gender wars, until I recalled that Angel of the Morning was written by a guy, Chip Taylor, aka Jon Voight’s brother. (Insert joke here.)
Then there is that odd sub-genre of “love songs,” in which men try to woo the fairer sex (that’s us gals, or was, anyway, until you know, Millenials and their bullshit) by crowing about how poor they are and how if they please, oh please oh please get together, he intends to…well, still stay in poverty but it’s okay, because dammit, they are in love© and thus can just screw under a bridge instead of eating or bathing or some such nonsense.
Take, for example, Forever in Blue Jeans.
Forever in Freaking, Fucking Blue Jeans.
Or as I like to call it: I Have No Ambition, Will Never Even Try to Amount to Anything or Aspire to Any Goal to Try and Improve Our Situation, But Hey, We Can Sing and Dance Until the Hepatitis Does Us In.
I would like this say this kind of estrogen-manipulating nonsense died when my clueless generation got jobs, but nope. Justin Bieber soldiers on with such profundities as “We could be starving, we could be homeless, we could be broke. As long as you love me.”
And the sound of a hundred-thousand pairs of gullible teenage girls’ panties just hit the ground running.
Hey, here’s a completely off-the wall idea, Justin. How about you get a job???
Thank God for the clear head of menopause.
Oh, and lest anyone gets the idea that these rants mean that I hate men, let me say this: