glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife (365-104, with dedication)
Day 104 of 365: a year in songs and photos
Song: Meatloaf, Paradise By The Dashboard Light
Getting the photo in early today because I'm working on, by request, a list of all the songs I've used so far with links to where you can hear/see them. Daunting task.
Tonight's song and photo are dedicated to Auntsmack4u
Auntsmack4u posted an album cover today. The album I personally inducted into annals of Insipid Moments in Rock History. And it's all because of this one song. It's the song I hate more than any other song that has ever been written, performed or copyrighted since time began and will always, forever continue to be the one song that can make me run screaming from a wedding, bat mitzvah or block party. The song that can reduce grown men and women to pantomiming actors in a surreal line dance of lust.
I’m sure you’ve all been to weddings or the like where people acted this song out. It can’t just be a Long Island thing. Please tell me that this happens in other places.
It was at my sister's wedding 13 years ago when my hatred for this song reached it's peak. It was a lovely reception. I was having a great time doing shots of tequila with the bartender and watching my relatives do all those crazy line dances that I refuse to get involved with.
As soon as the DJ cued up Paradise song - I’m talking as soon as the first note hit - the dance floor was packed. Everyone who sat on their fat, drunk asses during the great dance songs of the night (Oh, like you don't want to dance every time you hear Funkytown) were suddenly lined up on the floor. Guys on the left. Chicks on the right. Ready to....what? Rumble? Line dance? What the hell were they doing? Following the song? Acting it out? When did Paradise become the new Hokey Pokey? Was I that sheltered that I missed this memo?
At this point in the reception, I’d had about five thousand shots of tequila. Ok, maybe twenty. Twelve. Whatever. Point is, tequila will usually have me up on a table swinging my bra around dancing to some Donna Summer song. But not even a good Cuervo buzz could get me out there for this song. They tried. I told them to back off. Call me when the DJ puts on Bad Girls.
I just stood back and watched. Grown men and women doing this bizarre dance ritual. We’re talking town councilmen and judges and the president of the local chamber of commerce. Respected citizens! They all took turns singing the boy/girl parts, standing across from each other like some scene out of West Side Story and doing this back and forth singing. They acted the parts out, pretending to be lusty teenagers in a steamy car. During the Phil Rizzuto play by play part, one couple stood in the center of the two lines and pantomimed the whole thing. I kid you not. They acted the whole damn thing out. I was embarrassed. Why weren’t they? My jaw dropped as my cousin informed me that this went on at every wedding, in every bar, every night of the week and I needed to get out more. No. No. I need to never leave the sanctity of my house again. I’ve been emotionally scarred by witnessing this.
It got worse from there. The play by play part was over. Some lady in a too-short cocktail dress did a sliding split into the middle of the dance floor, holding up her hand and singing "STOP RIGHT THERE!" Wait.. That’s no lady. That’s my daughter’s religious ed teacher! And that guy singing “let me sleep on it” in her face? Jesus, that’s my uncle. Then they all chimed in. All of them. The guys singing desperately "I gotta know right now" and the girls responding with a tit-shaking chorus of "let me sleep on it. This went on until the very end, where they all did some bizarre shimmy down to the floor as they whispered “glowing like a metal on the edge of a knife.” I shook my head to clear it. I thought maybe the tequila had gotten to me. I was hallucinating. I had been transported to the ninth level of hell and Satan himself was going to rise out of the dance floor. But no. It was real. It was real and it was horrible and it formed some Pavlovian response in my brain so that I start itching and breaking out in hives every time I hear this song.
That happened 13 years ago. And I remember every little thing.......nah, not going there.
glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife (365-104, with dedication)
Day 104 of 365: a year in songs and photos
Song: Meatloaf, Paradise By The Dashboard Light
Getting the photo in early today because I'm working on, by request, a list of all the songs I've used so far with links to where you can hear/see them. Daunting task.
Tonight's song and photo are dedicated to Auntsmack4u
Auntsmack4u posted an album cover today. The album I personally inducted into annals of Insipid Moments in Rock History. And it's all because of this one song. It's the song I hate more than any other song that has ever been written, performed or copyrighted since time began and will always, forever continue to be the one song that can make me run screaming from a wedding, bat mitzvah or block party. The song that can reduce grown men and women to pantomiming actors in a surreal line dance of lust.
I’m sure you’ve all been to weddings or the like where people acted this song out. It can’t just be a Long Island thing. Please tell me that this happens in other places.
It was at my sister's wedding 13 years ago when my hatred for this song reached it's peak. It was a lovely reception. I was having a great time doing shots of tequila with the bartender and watching my relatives do all those crazy line dances that I refuse to get involved with.
As soon as the DJ cued up Paradise song - I’m talking as soon as the first note hit - the dance floor was packed. Everyone who sat on their fat, drunk asses during the great dance songs of the night (Oh, like you don't want to dance every time you hear Funkytown) were suddenly lined up on the floor. Guys on the left. Chicks on the right. Ready to....what? Rumble? Line dance? What the hell were they doing? Following the song? Acting it out? When did Paradise become the new Hokey Pokey? Was I that sheltered that I missed this memo?
At this point in the reception, I’d had about five thousand shots of tequila. Ok, maybe twenty. Twelve. Whatever. Point is, tequila will usually have me up on a table swinging my bra around dancing to some Donna Summer song. But not even a good Cuervo buzz could get me out there for this song. They tried. I told them to back off. Call me when the DJ puts on Bad Girls.
I just stood back and watched. Grown men and women doing this bizarre dance ritual. We’re talking town councilmen and judges and the president of the local chamber of commerce. Respected citizens! They all took turns singing the boy/girl parts, standing across from each other like some scene out of West Side Story and doing this back and forth singing. They acted the parts out, pretending to be lusty teenagers in a steamy car. During the Phil Rizzuto play by play part, one couple stood in the center of the two lines and pantomimed the whole thing. I kid you not. They acted the whole damn thing out. I was embarrassed. Why weren’t they? My jaw dropped as my cousin informed me that this went on at every wedding, in every bar, every night of the week and I needed to get out more. No. No. I need to never leave the sanctity of my house again. I’ve been emotionally scarred by witnessing this.
It got worse from there. The play by play part was over. Some lady in a too-short cocktail dress did a sliding split into the middle of the dance floor, holding up her hand and singing "STOP RIGHT THERE!" Wait.. That’s no lady. That’s my daughter’s religious ed teacher! And that guy singing “let me sleep on it” in her face? Jesus, that’s my uncle. Then they all chimed in. All of them. The guys singing desperately "I gotta know right now" and the girls responding with a tit-shaking chorus of "let me sleep on it. This went on until the very end, where they all did some bizarre shimmy down to the floor as they whispered “glowing like a metal on the edge of a knife.” I shook my head to clear it. I thought maybe the tequila had gotten to me. I was hallucinating. I had been transported to the ninth level of hell and Satan himself was going to rise out of the dance floor. But no. It was real. It was real and it was horrible and it formed some Pavlovian response in my brain so that I start itching and breaking out in hives every time I hear this song.
That happened 13 years ago. And I remember every little thing.......nah, not going there.