Anyway, she’s been after me for awhile to do some sort of “guest post”, which is just a nice way of saying “do my work for me”. So, here goes. I’m pretty rusty at this sort of thing -I haven’t done any real blogging for about 3 years.

I was a bit conflicted on what to write, to be honest -I dig the “Approved, Disapproved” gimmick Jill’s been working, but I couldn’t decide which way to go. So, in the grand American tradition of excess, I’ll do one of each.

JAN APPROVES OF: SWEATPANTS

Sweatpants are freaking Awesome. They don’t judge you like jeans…they’re supportive. “Hey, put on a few pounds? Don’t worry, happens to all of us. Just let that drawstring out a little and we still fit just fine!” Meanwhile, those uppity blue jeans refuse to mold to your expanding girth. And frankly, few items of clothing have greater capacity for comfort. Hell, I’ve got a pair of blue Adidas sweats that, in this house, are referred to only as The World’s Most Comfortable Sweats. To call them anything else would demean their remarkable facility.

Sweatpants are versatile as well. Maybe you’re lounging around the house, perhaps trying to watch the Angel game, when the wife demands -in a shrill voice -that you fetch her something from some store or another, you’re not sure because you stopped listening? As long as your sweats are halfway decent, you can just stroll right on out. A good looking pair of sweats is socially acceptable attire anywhere from “hangin’ with the homies” to “dinner at semi-casual restaurant“. Don’t let anyone tell you your sweats are “inappropriate”! I say rock those fucking wonder pants! Truly, the apparel of the gods.

JAN DISAPPROVES OF: TEENAGERS

Teenagers suck. It’s just a universal truth. It’s kind of remarkable, really -the suckitude of teens cuts across racial, socio-economic, cultural and and religious lines. Teenagers today are just fucking insufferable to be around, especially when you’ve had the bloody common sense to not have any kids and yet you’re forced to deal with other people’s demon spawn. They’re like another species; they speak some incomprehensible yet truly retarded language, they wear shit Amy Winehouse would be ashamed of( have you seen the fucking BOOTS they’re wearing now? When did He-Man replica apparel become chic?), and they appear to be utterly oblivious to just how infuriating much of their public behavior is. And the ones who are aware think its cool. Fucking little pubescant bastards. I weep for our future if these geniuses are in charge of it.

Well, I think that’s enough from me. I’ll make sure Jill gets back to unleashing the funny onto the unsuspecting interweb soon, I promise.

Until next time.

These videos were like a relentless visceral assault of guitars, tits, robots, hair, midgets, sweat, more tits, explosions, spandex, kung-fu, monsters, and ass. All in one place; morning, noon, and night. It was pure sensory overload. Sometimes I would get so overwhelmed with excitement that I would pass out while I was watching MTV. My parents didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me, and I was afraid that if I told them I was overwhelmed with excitement, they’d just use it against me, like parents always do when you really like something. I could just imagine the inevitable: “No MTV tonight if you don’t mow the lawn and clean your room.” Fuck all that. I’d even try to pretend I was bored if they walked by while I was watching. “Look at this lameass thing with the stupid tits and robots.” Meanwhile, my muscles are clenched and my eyes are rolling up in my head and a spit bubble’s forming at the side of my mouth, and I’m doing everything in my fleeting power to stop from passing out. “Must…stay…conscious…or be forced…to clean room.” No fuckin’ way. I know you’re wondering if I actually swore this much as a kid. Yes, I did. I grew up in the Boston area, so I was literally dropping F-bombs out the womb. “Let me outta this fuckin’ womb already, Ma. You kiddin’ me with this shit? I got places to be out there.” I don’t talk like that anymore, but I’m trying to stay true to period.

So anyway, as is common among kids with ADD and large, threatening testicles; the initial overwhelming excitement soon began to wear off. I practically had one foot out the door on MTV already; I’m on to video games, and making out, and street hockey, and fireworks and shit like that now. Then something totally unexpected happened that would change my life for at least a couple months. MTV began playing a video for a song named “King of Rock” and this video was like nothing I’d ever seen or heard before. There were no instruments, or singing, or even tits (things I had come to expect in music videos by now); but instead, there were just a couple guys barking out lyrics at each other and another guy that was somehow using record players to produce grinding guitar riffs and bone-jarring bass beats that felt like they shattered the very air around me. A new day had dawned in both music and video, and it’s name: Run-D.M.C.

This music rose up from our country’s inner cities like a bright and newly life-restoring sun; and those hard, crunchy beats and brazen, rebellious lyrics were so damn powerful: “I’m the King of Rock. There is none HIGHER. Sucka MC’s should call me SIRE. To burn my Kingdom, you must use FIRE. And I won’t stop rocking ’till I RETIRE!” Holy-Mother-Of-Fuck. It immediately permeated every facet of American youth culture, and even the whitest of suburban children—myself included—were helpless to not erupt into spontaneous and gravity-defying dance moves at the slightest provocation; always at the ready with what were universally understood to be the impromptu dance-floors of choice: a discarded refrigerator box or sheet of linoleum. We now wore nylon tracks-suits to get good speed and a “whoosh” sound when we executed our windmills and backspins; and the fat laces on our Adidases had to stay untied, so we could kick them off the instant some moves needed to be busted out. You also could no longer address your friends by their birthnames; but instead had to refer to them by their newly adopted “street” handles, which were usually some variation of whatever treat they enjoyed receiving most from the ice cream man that summer. My own handle was Italian Ice. This had nothing to do with being Italian; I just really loved that frosty treat; and also, my tags looked fuckin’ dope: “-II-”.

Of course, all this excitement would eventually die down as well; yet still, to this day, I have an unwavering affinity for music, tits, and breakdancing; and I’ll always remember 1985 as the year that it all came together for the very first time.

Peace out.

-II- (A.K.A. .45 of .45 Caliber Headspace)

**Scroll down for my latest post: The Case of the Missing Prophylactic; Part 2**

Please check it out and of course comments (over there *nudge nudge*) are not only welcomed but craved and appreciated!

-Jillian