Back over Labor Day Weekend, we had a bit of a dustup in the Nashosphere. So the fence-mending was tonight, and I had to bail at the next-to-last minute. As I told my fellow conspirator, it’s like we’re the nerds who decorate the gym but stay home the night of the prom.
Anyway, since prom was happening without me, I decided I’d burn off my loneliness with a bracing round of Pilates. Okay. Ouch. But aside from that, in the middle of one of the mind-expanding gut-clenching exercises I realized that you all have killed Rock & Roll. I hope you’re happy. My workout mix consists of a healthy dose of Jim Steinman,
flavoured with bits of The Who, AC/DC and Jethro Tull. This is music that makes you want to behave badly. It makes you want to get on a motorcycle and go like…a bat out of hell. This is Rock & Roll. Much as Tim and I have spent the last 12 years of our marriage making fun of that actor named Bill who isn’t the one in Independence Day but is the one in Twister, I must say that I agree with his whinging dismissal of Jonas. Much like the Dread Pirate Roberts dude in Twister, Rock & Roll went and got itself some Corporate Sponsors. And they’ve killed it dead. Come on people. Mariah frakkin’ Carey? This is what you give me when Ian Anderson hangs up his angry flute? I’m not exercising to TLC or Brittney Spears or whatever no-talent hack is pretty enough to warrant soundboards remixing their voice into tolerable. If I want to see pretty breasts I’ll either buy a magazine or go and sit in the locker room at the Green Hills YMCA. If I want to hear music that makes me want to burn something and dance, I’ll have to revisit the record collection. But since none of it ever grows old, I guess I’m fine with that.
But here I am on prom night and I must tell you, from the bottom of my heart that
Nothin’ ever grows in this rotten ol’ hole. Everything is stunted and lost. And nothin’ really rocks and nothing really rolls and nothin’s ever worth the cost.