PunkKittyDiddy

The Pre-K Music Video Critic: Whereby Billy Idol Fails to Do Anything Right

Z. is now five years old, and she's developed a keen interest in music videos.  Given our desire to impart in her a love for the arts, and a healthy respect for pretty much any form of creative expression, this should come as no surprise.  What is slightly surprising is that, despite our attempts to mold her into a free-thinking bohemian of some sort, she's developing unmistakably pragmatic leanings. 

I offer up Z.'s initially staid observations on a small and not-so-random sampling of music videos:

Upon beholding Billy Idol's complete lack of social decorum at a formal affair in 'White Wedding':

"He ruined that wedding." 

[Editor's Note:  Yes.  Yes, he did.  And this is just ONE of the many pitfalls that one can expect when one marries a musician, little missy.]

Upon beholding Billy Idol acting as a gyrating human semi-conductor to repel well-coiffed zombies in 'Dancing with Myself':

"That's not really how you kill zombies."

[Editor's Note:  No.  Not it's not.  SO proud that she knows this.]

As I teetered on the brink of despair, fearing that we were saddled with an unrepentant and slightly dour realist for the next thirteen years, she soon rallied.

Upon beholding Billy Idol merely riding a motorcyle in 'Hot in the City':

"He's riding a motorcyle.  That's all he's doing.  I don't like this video."

Poor Billy. He can't win.

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme........An Earplug! Or A Stiff Drink! Something!

I thought it would be a culturally beneficial thing - or at the very least, a benign thing - to introduce the Wee One to the musical stylings of ABBA.  Z. seems to be melodically inclined, and it's nice to broaden her musical horizons beyond "Itsy Bitsy Spider."  Besides, you can only listen to so many rounds of "Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes (Knees and Toes!)" before you consider having all of those items violently dismembered in an effort to distract yourself from the mental anguish of hearing fifty more rounds of that very song.  And, in the scheme of things, little nuggets of old-school pop perfection seem like a harmless enough progression after the alphabet song.

Er........ now that Z. is parading around everywhere singing, "Looking out for another, anyone will do!" with zeal at the top of her lungs, it seems slightly less innocuous than before.  Though it's still impressive that she has committed most of the ABBA oeuvre to memory before the tender age of three.  (Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I know.  I could have been teaching her Latin.)

Alas, toddlers have that thing about relentless repetition.  She is slowly killing my affinity for ABBA by demanding that Mamma Mia (the movie) be in constant rotation.  And worse, now she's gonna grow up expecting to partner up with someone as good-looking as Dominic Cooper who will express all of his emotions, via song, no less.  (This is at least a decade's worth of therapy in the making, right?)

Yet it's vaguely irresistible when Z. shouts, "Look, Mom!  It's the world's first girl-powered band!" as the "Super Trooper" scene queues up.  And she's newly excited by that.  For the hundredth-millionth time.

That's right.  The hundredth-millionth time.  Funny.  Prior to parenthood, I was usually hopped up on vodka whenever "Dancing Queen" would pipe through the sound system of whatever club I was in.  (I didn't go to the cool clubs, OK?)  Maybe that's why it always seemed like the greatest song in the world at the time.  Maybe I need to plunge myself back into a vodka-fueled stupor in order to salvage some appreciation for those singing Swedes whom I once held so near and dear to my heart....and whom I now do not wish to find within a thousand yards of either eardrum. 

My liver's well-being, or my sanity?  Tough call.

Just Another Day

Happy people pass my way.  Lookin' in their eyes, I see a memory......I never realized how happy you made me, oh Mandyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.........

There are some smokin' hot tunes being shuffled on my iPod nowadays.  I am officially the shit.

OK, I'm finally ready to talk about the Manilow Incident.  I touched upon it briefly on Facebook the other night.  Had an opportunity to go out on a date with I.G. because my mom was in town, and she was able to render babysitting services.  This hardly ever happens - I.G. and I maybe average one date every six months.  Otherwise, we do go out - just not together.  I'm not saying that's inevitable when you have kids.   Lots of parents manage to arrange regular "date nights," or what have you.  Only Mr. G and I have thus far not figured out how to identify potential babysitting candidates whom I don't immediately suspect on sight of being part of some underground black market baby-selling ring.  Plus we're homebodies, anyway.  So this could have been our one shot in all of 2009 to have dinner together without having to bark, "Stop throwing forks at the busboy!" every five minutes.  We had to make it count.

The night started out in promising fashion.  We went for sushi, and, since I.G. was the designated driver, I had no qualms about washing the meal down with lots of Sapporo.  Er....maybe not lots - I'm a renowned lightweight - but in no time, I was feeling feisty.  I wanted to do something impetuous and reckless!  And the world - or at least the greater L.A. area - was our oyster!  Should we snort drugs in the bathroom stall of a trendy bar?  Or drive up the Pacific Coast Highway and swerve into a five car pile-up with Nick Nolte, Mel Gibson, Shia LaBeouf and Paris Hilton?

Noooo.  The best I could come up with was demanding that I.G. take me to Target, because I suddenly was overwhelmed by an urge to buy the "Ultimate Manilow" CD.  There was no talking me out of it, and no stopping along the way to deface public property or suck face with Lindsay Lohan in a nightclub.  This was my one night off from parenthood, and I wanted to hear "Mandy," goddamn it.

I didn't even shoplift the CD.  I bought it.  Willingly.  With my own money. 

No, I can't explain it.  Yes, I'm deeply ashamed.

Although I don't think I'm totally out of the loop, musically speaking.  While on the aforementioned CD procuring spree of shame, I also obtained a copy of The Ting Tings debut album.  Though I kind of suspect that "That's Not My Name" was written in a lab by behavioral scientists who had a bet going as to how many 13 year old teenage girls would have the song memorized within 24 hours of its release.

So it probably doesn't totally exonerate me, but I'm throwin' it out there, just in case..........