I have a lovely ice pick that I took from the basement bar of my grandfather's house after he died. I also took a nudie ashtray, a black ceramic panther and some old photos, but I love the ice pick the most of all of my Grampy mementos. It has a warn, 4-sided wooden handle and on two sides it reads: "Tebbit's, Inc. 102 N. Medina St. Medina, Ohio 44256." On one other side it reads: "ICE. Bags or Block." And the other reads: "Wine, Beer, Pop." We call it "soda" in the South. The word "pop" in reference to a carbonated drink always brings back memories of my sunburned cousins and I sipping fizzy grape drinks that were probably made purple by carcinogenic dyes. But no matter, we were happy.
Anyway, I lovingly think of Grampy's ice pick a lot now that my daughter has discovered the joys of the randomness (or not, actually) of music on the radio. At least once a day I contemplate grabbing Grampy's ice pick out of the ceramic pot on my kitchen counter and jamming it into my temple. Yes. Sweet relief from Kelly Clarkson. Sweet jeebus, whatever did we as a species do to deserve this? First, she should be beaten by an angry mob of drunk drag queens (because they can REALLY bitch slap) for that abomination of a "movie"-- "From Justin to Kelly"-- just for good measure. But her songs played over and over and over and over (all of which sound alike)on the radio are wearing me out. The fact that my daughter is bopping around the house and SINGING ALONG only adds to the hideous psychic and auditory torture.
I am sorry, I cannot artistically relate to anyone who was not even ALIVE when the Ramones released Rocket to Russia and the Sex Pistols were neverminding the Bollocks. No, wait, wait, on second thought, fuck it, I'm SO not sorry.
I told the GITB that we need to lock the kid in her room for some pop-music-poison detox, deprogramming and intensive cultural re-training which includes listening to nothing but the following: Velvet Underground, The Kinks, New York Dolls, The Clash, Iggy Pop, Black Flag, The Ramones, Dead Kennedys, The Plasmatics, Agent Orange, Dead Boys, Butthole Surfers, Bad Religion and Angry Samoans. Oh, and Circle Jerks and Gang Green. He thinks I am over-reacting but I am her mother, after all, and I owe this to her. It's my duty.
Dear Kelly--bite me.
4 comments:
Hey, Tebbitts is down the road here. Its a beverage/bait place. FYI
LOL!! That was a great post. Hey, gotta love The Ramones - I'm with ya there. You should make a rule - No Kelly in the house. She can only listen to it outside, ha ha. OH, I grew up in the Midwest and so we always said "pop". When I moved East people laughed at me! fuckers
Oh no, you are not overreacting. Deprogramming must commence immediately. (Ooooh, look at all the m's!)
I thank the heavens my daughter doesn't listen to Kelly Clarkson and those of her ilk. One of her favorites is the HorrorPops, which might make a good starting point for re-training. Sing-a-long-able, but no ice pick needed ;)
During each of the many summer days spent in the icehouse at Tebbit's (my dad and his brother were the proprietors) I had the same recurring desire for the merciful release an injection of freezing cold steel into my temple would bring.
On too many ocassions, I had to settle for jabs into my hands while chipping 300# blocks of ice.
Any blood on that pick (that's not your own)?
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