I don’t normally post about shows like The Voice, but trilby-wearing, elf-faced Josh Kaufman blew me away last night. And, no, he’s not hot. He’s just good.
A few notes into George Michael’s “One More Try,” Adam Levine turned his big red chair around in approval. Indiana native Josh was already nailing it. The truth is it’s hard for me to think of any song off that 1988 Faith cassette without picturing the former Wham! frontman in his ripped jeans and scruffy five o’clock shadow, shaking his rump and pretending to be into Asian women. It’s often hard to separate the artist from the song.
It’s kind of like how every December, the radio stations and department stores put George Michael’s “Last Christmas” on high rotation, and I can’t enjoy it as a holiday song, because I keep picturing him in public toilets, soliciting sex from policemen and being foolish enough to get caught. Kind of ruins the whole Christmas spirit.
So for Josh Kaufman to be able to belt the song out in a new and soulful way, devoid of all that Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou baggage, was refreshing. Once you’re sick of a song, you’re usually sick of it forever. I’m talking to you, “Red Red Wine.” But Josh infused this ballad with new life.
As he continued to sing it, I feared he wouldn’t be able to hit the money note, “Hold you, touch YOU-OOOOO,” but he did. In spades.
Adam Levine’s comment to Josh once he finished: “Damn.”
No, this isn’t a post about urinary tract infections; it’s about lyrics, because that’s 99% what’s swirling about in my big bullom head. Song lyrics, including cheesey, inspirational soundtrack lyrics.
I’m not saying St. Elmo’s Fire can in any way rival Eye of the Tiger for most motivational song of the 80s (and you KNOW the 80s was full of motivational ditties), but one cannot deny the Tony Robbins-esque “can-do” attitude of the lyrics. So as we near the end of February, casting our New Year’s resolutions to the wind (which is where the dust is, which is what we are), keep John Parr’s words in mind:
Play the game — you know you can’t quit until it’s won. Soldier on– only you can do what must be done.
Ladies, I know what you’re thinking: No, someone else can do what must be done: dishes, laundry, dinner. But think about it. Could anyone really do it the right way? Or will they just screw it up, forcing you to redo it, reprimanding them with clear-cut words that dissipate upon their ears because they refuse to be teachable?
While we’re at it, did you think you’d be ten pounds lighter by now? I did. I cut my portions, drank more water, drank less soda and wine, and exercised more, even going to an RPM class at the devil’s own Gold’s Gym. But guess what? I didn’t lose a pound. Not a filthy pound. But I can’t give up. You know why?
I can see a new horizon underneath the blazing sky. I’ll be where the eagles flying higher and higher.
I guess that’s a metaphor because I’m actually still down here on rough terrain. I can’t even afford a plane ticket to see the eagles flying. So maybe it’s a metaphor for rising higher. You can do it!
I can climb the highest mountain, cross the wildest sea.
Who am I kidding? I can barely trudge up that hill near the soccer fields. I can barely cross the YMCA swimming pool.
You broke the boy in me but you won’t break the man.
Oh, okay, this is just for dudes. Now it makes way more sense.
Just once in his life a man has his time. And my time is now. I’m coming alive.
Yeah, totally for dudes. It’s not a woman in motion.
Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels. Take me where my future’s lyin’, St. Elmo’s Fire.
What in tarnation does this mean? A man in motion? A pair of wheels? Do you need a bike, sweetie? Did you get caught up in the whole Lance Armstrong thing? Why is your future lying in St. Elmo’s Fire? St. Elmo’s Fire was a bar–is your future in bartending? How’s your Tom Cruise flair?
Sometimes I actually get sick of “not getting it,” so I researched this one because I am sleuthy like that. Per http://www.songfacts.com/, David Foster wrote the song for a Canadian athlete named Rick Hansen, who was paralyzed from the waist down after a car crash. On March 21, 1985 Hansen began his “Man In Motion” tour, putting over 40,000 Kilometers (24,856 miles) on his wheelchair in 34 countries on 4 continents, while raising $26 million for spinal cord research.
If you’re Canadian, you have no excuse not to know that. Being American, I’d never heard of him. But it does make me wonder what the heck it has to do with a Brat Pack coming-of-age film. Oh, and P.S. this movie poster declares “the heat this summer is at Saint Elmo’s Fire.” I’ll tell you why: because it’s SUMMER and they’re wearing coats and scarves and close-toed shoes. I’d be hot, dressed like that in summer, too. Come to think of it, passion can’t even burn deep. Deeply, perhaps. But not deep.
I doubt any young man would want to be saddled with the nickname of Woody in this day and age. But in days of yore, it was not uncommon. Most of you remember Woody Woodpecker.
Or this naive, young bartender, Huckleberry Woodrow Tiberius “Woody” Boyd, from Cheers, played by a man named Woody in real life.
Other famous Woodies include folk singer Woody “This Land Is My Land” Guthrie, and Woody Allen, the director/screenwriter who destroyed any of his cred by marrying his stepdaughter (yes, she was, for all practical purposes) Soon-Yi, who is 37 years his junior. Gross, Woody. You disgust me. And I never liked Annie Hall. But I do like this picture. Or half of it, at least.
He was actually one of the four presidents who have been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. He received his in 1919 for founding the League of Nations, the predecessor to the United Nations. You probably know Obama somehow nabbed one as well, but so did Theodore Roosevelt and Jimmy Carter. But I want to leave you with a more upbeat woody–this one from Toy Story.
Aging is no picnic, unless your picnic has ants, and it’s raining. Then it is indeed a picnic. My birthday is coming up this month, and while I usually have no desire for presents or acknowledgements of the slow decline into degeneration, this year I have seen some things to add to my wishlist.
First, I want this sweater. I knew of poodle skirts, but not poodle sweaters! Of course, it would look a lot better if I were flatchested, but who cares if its little paws tuck underneath my bosom?
Second, I want this shirt.
Well, now that I think about it, it would look too busy on me. I guess what I really want is to SEE someone wearing that shirt in person, so my jaw can drop in awesome wonder as I marvel at it.
Also, I want a good great blow-out. No, it’s not the female counterpart to what fellas want. It requires a blowdryer. Yeah, I’ve had decent ones, but not Tony-the-Tiger GUH-REAT ones. Well, I did that one time in Texarkana nearly 20 years ago (I still remember the car honks I got while pumping gas afterward. I can hear Bruce Springsteen singing “Glory Days” as I type…) Anyway, I want to look beautiful, kind of like this:
I want everyone I encounter on that day to tell me not only does my blow-out look gorgeous, but that I could pass for being in my 30s as in days of yore. Also, they will complain that they had to go hunting for their college thesaurus last night in order to find enough kind words to say about me. I will be both fetching and prepossessing all day long.
I will also receive various dark chocolate assortments, with nougats and cremes and nuts, but they will have no calories and no chemicals. And no birthday cards! Cards are a waste of $3. Just give me a $1 dollar bill and write “happy birthday” in the corner. Good enough. And nothing with glitter! Glitter is for hookers and showgirls and burlesque dancers and people who still wear tube tops. Ick.
Then we will all gather ’round and make a toast to another year of not being dead. Bartender, 7-Up all around! You know what Granny says:
But most of all, I want to never forget how blessed I am–with family, friends, a house with room to breathe, and all my WordPress blogger buddies!
You know, I was gonna make a crack about Justin Bieber’s dad in the pedophile mustache, but then I remembered that the Bieber is STILL A TEENAGER. Yes, he is. And Papa Bieber is barely old enough to be president. Yes, Jeremy (spoke in class today) Bieber would have been learning what sound farm animals make and how not to wet the bed when this picture was taken. So maybe it’s Bieber’s granddad. Or fun uncle. Or Drunk Uncle.
Either way, it appears they’ve drained the bottle. And nobody likes an empty bottle.
Mercy here was bold enough to enter (and win) a jalapeno-eating contest, and the Mickey Gilley lookalike appears only too happy to judge. Now she has some pocket money to put in these cowboy’s change cups.
Or maybe this dude’s more her style, in his Urban Cowboy Chic.
Either way, dancing is on the agenda.
Just don’t take it too far. Bikini bull-riding is no fun when you’re tipsy.
What is this? Animal House meets the Village People? No, maybe not the Village People. Although they sang “In The Navy,” I doubt these Navy ROTC Midshipmen spun a lot of VP on their turntables. Check them out in their weapons and combat gear. This is where I make an obscure reference to Howard Jones in the way way back (the tall, Aryan one), but perhaps that’s more a Pandoran influence than reality. Anyway, I think we can all agree who the alpha male is here, in this portrait of masculinity. It’s knee socks guy. You know it is. The posture, the marriage of vest and tie and ripped daisy dukes, the sassy confidence. Damn, it feels good to be a gangster. Seriously no Low T here.
Don’t know what “Low T” is? Why the heck not? The TV is riddled with commercials about Low Testosterone, alternating between those hormone replacement commercials, where longhaired women in their sixties confess how happy their husbands are that “my libido is back.” Your grandparents didn’t have to worry about this stuff, right? My grandparents spent more time absorbed in Readers Digests than they did at the corner Walgreen’s, refilling prescriptions for afflictions they were too ignorant to know they had. BECAUSE THEY HADN”T BEEN INVENTED BY BIG PHARMA YET. Complaints were limited to arthritis, goiter, and bursitis. But not today’s society.
Let’s not. Who cares about your Low T? You’re not getting any action regardless, pajama boy. I bet that’s herbal tea in that mug. Yeah, I have heard about the lonesome loser. It’s you. Dang, just when I thought my libido was back, you had to send it away. Curses!
Just think, somewhere out there, hundreds if not thousands of pharmaceutical company employees are getting paid to brainstorm up some fake diseases to prey on our fears and our wallets. Did you know my gums are receding? Perhaps that’s blog-induced bruxism (BIB)? And just like diabetes, there are two categories:
The bruxism (teeth grinding) I have at night while I sleep, wondering what to blog about the next day
The bruxism due to reading blogs that oppose my core beliefs, causing me to clench my jaw in defiance and fight the temptation to respond with a violent outburst or clever barb
You, too, may have BIB. Where’s the pill for that? Oh, they’re working on it?
(Disclaimer: side effects may include sleepiness, nervousness, insomnia, dizziness, nausea, skin rash, headache, diarrhea, upset stomach, loss of appetite, dry mouth, anal leakage and sudden death. But really, isn’t anal leakage as bad as sudden death?)
Nobody could rock a hoop earring like Jody (“Lookin’ For A New Love) Watley. Rumor has it that she hasn’t shrugged since the mid-80s. Many people tried to copy her style. Some went so far as to marry it with a quilted jacket and hat. Oh, no, you di’n’t…
Even modern-day Watley can’t rock a hoop like 1987 Watley. Sometimes you just need to let the style go gently into that good night. These earrings look about as silly as the albino Unibomber behind them.
I Don't Get It 