Monday, February 18, 2013

A PRISONER WITH HIS OWN KEY

If you were alive in the 1980s you were required to like Wham! To do otherwise was to cast a shadow on sunshine and crazy pop goodness; it was akin to going to a party, turning down a proffered line of powder and then sneezing it off the mirror. That, friend, is just piss-poor etiquette.

If you hated Wham! you hated America (even though they were Brits), and if you thought George W. Bush's 'Murica was wild, you should have been in the middle of one of the rabid pro-America rallies in Reaganland. Fuck yeah, indeed.

So when I saw the Wham! button at the garage sale on Sunday I swatted aside a small child and told her to play on the freeway (besides, I think she thought George Michael was cute, and I didn't have the heart or time to tell her that he was much older and fatter now, not to mention the fact that he plays for the other team). I had to have that Wham! button because all it takes is a bust-out of "Freedom" to whisk every stupid dark cloud from my insides. And given the events of late, I need a cloud-free, fulla sunshine day. I need the contradiction of happy happy joy joy and dark sarcasm.

I mean, check out the wretched nature of that long-dead decade. Bad hair, and lots of it! Bad fashion, sold for outrageous prices! Bouncy beats, offset by lyrics full of turmoil and self-destruction! This was the '80s and no amount of nostalgia can take away its wonderfully corrosive ways.
'Cause there is nothing better than being a fool and giving everything to another person who's just not that into you. Take me to hell and back? Sure, babe. Just as long as we're together. I will forgive you — just this once, twice, forever.

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