It’s going to be a good night tonight; I just know it.
How do I know it? Because when I arrived home from work, this song was playing on the boombox in the kitchen:
Looking Glass – Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl) (from a 1972 single, collected on Golden Classics, 1996)
…and there are few omens more auspicious than the mellow sounds of classic Jersey Shore soul-slash-pop.
Am I jeopardizing my cache of punk rock points by admitting my total love for this song? Perhaps, but I could care less. I don’t feel the need to display my hepcat credentials on my sleeve, accusing other folks’ of having bad taste in music or liking “overrated” bands while offering their own equally trite and predictable lists of “edgy” songs and performers.
Fuck being contrary for the sake of hipness. I follow my heart when it comes to music, and for tonight, at least, my life, my lover, my lady is the sea.
Do-do-de-do-do.
(Edit: I thought it would be wise to point out that the above rant does not apply to any of my wonderful music blogging peers, but was a reaction to something I read elsewhere on the internet.)
Monday, May 14, 2007
he came on a summer’s day
Thursday, April 19, 2007
it was a little bit frightening
Hey, kids, learn the secrets of the Way of the Open Palm from the comfort of your rumpus room! Never mind all that spiritual or philosophical “mumbo-jumbo.” You don’t want to waste time meditating like some boring bald dude on a Himalayan mountain peak -- you want to learn to kick some ass right out of the mailing envelope!
Hopefully the “simplified” instructions include responses for neutralizing the savage Parental-Fu techniques of “Why the FUCK is there a foot-shaped hole in the paneling?!?” and “Why is your mother’s favorite lamp lying in a dozen pieces on the carpet?” The road to self-taught martial art mastery is fraught with many such obstacles, grasshopper.
The childhood fascination with martial arts springs eternal, although it reached its fever peak in the early-to-mid 1970’s, when even a sleepy nondescript suburb like Woburn had a McDojo done up like a faux pagoda in the city center. (Even after the martial arts school went belly up, the ornamentation remained on the building for over a decade before finally falling victim to the city leaders’ quixotic desire to make the area look like a Currier and Ives print.) One couldn’t hit a library book sale or church fair in the early 1980’s without stumbling over a box full of creased paperbacks promising to explain the deadly secrets of “the Mysterious Orient” to the aspiring Shaolin master. (The previous masters having moved out of their parents’ houses and left behind their collections of sacred writings, Ted Nugent albums, and other mystical ephemera.)
My friends and I caught the kung fu bug during its mid-80’s mini-resurgence, which was largely fueled by Chuck Norris's piggybacking on Rambo’s coat tails and one of Michael Winslow’s Police Academy shticks. A major part of our training regimen consisted of flipping through various martial arts magazines, partially to glean some “Ninja Techniques for Beginners” but mostly to check out the ample assortments of ads offering “authentic” katanas, throwing stars, and other essential, kid-friendly gear for the Wanna-Bruce Lee.
The industrial park that bordered on my old neighborhood actually had a bona fide martial arts supply store within its confines. We used to ride past it on our Huffy BMX bikes and recite lists to each other of all the cool stuff we’d buy there as soon as we “saved enough money.” We also discussed rumors, passed on by older kids “in the know,” that the Chinese variety store by the projects sold a variety of sharp Asiatic implements to those fortunate to know the secret password.
In the end, we just made do with our own home-made gear. Nunchaku were fashioned from broom-handles linked with chain (nicked from parents’ garages or industrial sites). The thriving cottage industry in home shuriken making eventually led the junior high metal shop teacher to line everyone up at the end of each class in order to account for stray bits of sheet metal that may have “accidentally” fallen into students’ backpacks. (It may also have led said teacher to quit his job mid-semester for the greener pastures of a defense industry job.)
Armed with our improvised gear and wired to the gills on Fun Dip and Tahitian Treat (Do they make that anymore?), we’d duke it out Five Fingers of Death-style. Very little martial arts skills were exhibited, but we made up for it with a lot of shouting and jumping and accidental injuries of the sort that make me grateful I grew up in an era where our parents could afford comprehensive health insurance. (Important lesson: a carpet tack hammered in with a flat rock is not the proper method of securing a wooden flail head.)
Fun times, those. Raging dragons live forever, though, but so not little boys...
The more serious members of our sand pit tong eventually gravitated toward the real deal. For the rest of us, the numerous drills and practices just seemed like gym class dressed up in a gi, thus something to be avoided at all costs.Bus Stop – Kung Fu Fighting (from a 1998 single) – A cover/remix of Carl Douglas’s 1974 funk novelty hit. The song has also appeared in Konami’s DDR series of rhythm games.
…and here’s a killer double bill of crazy 70’s kung fu-wakka-chikka insanity:
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