One more weekend down, I say that like it’s a countdown to something, but not really. Spent Saturday shirking my duties in the backyard and watching football. Sunday we woke up early and went down to set up Sharaun’s classroom, and spent the rest of the day working on the porch in the backyard. Erik came over and we eventually found a rhythm and reached a pace that saw us nearly finishing the thing in one day. I’d say it’s about 95% done, and I’m toying with the idea of taking Friday off to cut in the curves. I gotta say, it’s completely exciting to see this, one of the final large-scale projects, coming together. I absolutely can’t wait until it’s done.
Oh guys, at the risk of perpetuating my image as a crotchety old hermit, I’m now going to make fun of a popular social activity with members of my age group. By doing this, I will surely come off even more curmudgeonly and anti-social than I am now perceived to be.
I’m gonna come right out and say it: I hate 80s cover-bands. Yes, I know, these bands continually play to packed houses and provide 110% pure energy and fun; I still hate ’em. In the area here, there are four or five of these outfits that are really popular, and between them all and their non-stop gigging – you’re pretty much guaranteed to be able to see one of them each night in any given weekend. And, because I’m a member of their target audience, I’ve found myself being drug to a couple of these shows. I’m pretty sure all these bands are really the same band, with some master evil plot to play as many shows as possible – drawing huge crowds of Gen-Xers and, without their knowledge, lulling them into old-age. That’s right – it’s the hidden agenda of what I like to call the 80s cover-band “axis of evil.” Bring in the crowds in their late-twenties, mix them with those in their mid-thirties and early-forties, and use the hypnotic uniting power of Jackson 5 and Bon Jovi covers played in Day-Glo outfits and foot-tall afro wigs to “suck the young” out of ’em all. Do not be fooled… read the truth below…
Sometimes these demons will even mix in a refrain or two of some currently popular song, something by Nelly or J-Lo perhaps, in an attempt to fool the borderline-geriatric into thinking they are listening to something that’s actually “hip.” “Hey! I heard my daughter/niece/cousin singing this song last week! I’m totally relevant right now! If they only knew how cool Uncle Dave really is!” Wrong Uncle Dave! You are a victim, unwittingly being led further and further away from pop-culture relevancy by the comealong tunes of the Pied Pipers of oldness. You think you’re cool? You’re having fun, but try to remember yourself ten years ago, then put your current self, at this show, in a fishbowl and let the you of ten years ago look in for a few minutes. You hear your younger self peeing his pants as he laughs uncontrollably at you? Hear he and his friends snickering and pointing as you sip a beer and bob your head to five white guys playing Marcia Griffiths’ “Electric Slide?” Congratulations, you’re arrived – you’re now completely lost. You’re an adult, you can’t relate, the line has been drawn and there’s no going back – you go to 80s cover-band shows.
I know, I know, I’m just not fun at all. If I just try and “get into it,” I’ll really enjoy it. “Get into it,” eh? Know what “getting into it” is? It’s turning off your “young” people! It’s choosing vanilla, it’s dousing yourself in the same cologne your wore in middle school and hanging out with drunk thirty- and forty-year olds making the best of what scraps they have left… clutching at the last thing they remember being fun and cool. It’s succumbing to male-pattern baldness and choosing the familiar and comfortable, it’s the death of your inner-child. It starts with going to 80s shows, and progresses to yelling at kids to stay off your grass and waking up at 5am on Saturday to hit the “early-bird” specials. Think of the long-term repercussions friends, every concert brings you closer to a news-watching, PTA meeting-going, ad-dult. Much like the little gremlin that tried to suck the soul out of a young Drew Barrymore’s nose in Cats Eye, these bands are busy sucking the collective cool out of their fanbase. Be afraid.
And, of course, the follow-up: I know it’s not quite as bad as all that, but, as with everything, it’s much funnier when exaggerated. I’m sure there are some deeper psychological reasons behind my fear and dislike of these shows, but I don’t want to speculate. People don’t understand why I don’t enjoy it, I mean, “everyone else” does! Well, in Germany in the 1940s “everyone” liked Hitler too, did that make him good? (Oh man, it’s official, I’ve turned into my dad. That Hitler comment, that’s 100% my dad, I can even hear him saying it.) Anyway, more than enough on this, I think you get the picture.
Time for bed, Dave out.