Last night I hosted a presidential debate party for members of the ponygirl club as well as members of the ponygirl society for musical appreciation. I mixed up a pitcher of the 2008 election's signature cocktail, the Sarah Palin rape kit. It's sort of like a Long Island but with some of that probiotic yogurt that makes you poo; it's expensive and it cleans you out. I also baked up some fucking delicious pumpkin bread and we settled in to our easy chairs to watch John McCain get Baracked. I wouldn't mind getting Baracked myself, but that's another blog for another time.
Somehow the evening turned, as all evenings must, into a backyard jam session which in turn turned into an epic campfire sing-along. Sometimes it can be hard to think of songs that everybody knows. We'd gone through the Beatles, the Doors, the Rolling Stones and (ugh)Nirvana when somebody said, "Hey, do you know any Weezer?"
The same somebody also said, "Weezer is basically metal, am I wrong?"
I don't know man. Usually I like to pretend that nothing after Pinkerton really happened. Watching videos this morning I decided to concede that the Green album is also real, if only because of the incredible pandering to girls that takes place in the "Island in the Sun" video. Cuddling with a bear, Rivers? Are you fucking kidding me? Kitties and puppies? Holding hands with a god damn monkey? Shit makes me squeal like a twelve year old, and that's what you want isn't it?
Not the squealing. I meant the twelve year old girls. That's what you want. Here's the thing: I know you man. One time when I was sixteen you drunkenly lurched at me but an Asian girl (probably also underage, let's be real) got in the way. You probably I don't remember. I barely do. My best friend and I had missed the last train home during your concert so we decided to prowl around Irvine all night because there wasn't much else we could do. We met up with some crazy fangirl who had a plush Miss Piggy doll she wanted to give you because of that video where you're friends with a bunch of damn muppets. It's always reassuring to meet a crazier fangirl than yourself. It makes you feel you're still cooler than someone, so we tagged along with her on her quest to penetrate the privacy of your backstage lair.
We watched you from a distance, imbibing party cup beverages in your pagoda with your cohorts. We entered one by one, spacing ourselves out so as to be less conspicuous. Miss Piggy was apprehended by security almost immediately. Girl was crazy. Yet we pressed on. Our eyes met across a crowded room, Rivers. You did the unthinkable. You waved at me. I waved back. You started lurching toward me. I didn't remember this last night, but this morning I have a phantom memory of maybe shaking your hand. Maybe one of my friends did. I don't know what happened to the brain cells where I used to keep this memory, probably paint fumes or vodka. I do remember being kind of shocked that you were really only about the same size as me.
Then you saw Her and the moment was over. We reconnected with Miss Piggy, her friend drove us to Carl's Jr and we passed the night sleepless on benches at the train station. It was fucking awesome.
So you see, I know you man. I know that despite your continued insistence that you give not a hoot, you care all too much. While I must admit that your video for "Pork and Beans" was rather on the lolarious side (although I fear that the song is merely a watered down rehashing of several older songs), I am worried about you. I am afraid that your facial hair is taking over your life. Some guys can have a stache or a beard or whatever without letting it control them. They can grow it out, shave it off, shape it up without losing themselves. Other guys think they're Sampson all of a sudden just because they have a stupid soul patch or whatever and shit starts taking over. They get that dead in the eyes look. You sir, have that look.
Gotta go listen to Pinkerton all day.
I'll bring home the turkey if you bring home the bacon,