Book Review: Stories I Only Tell My Friends, by Rob Lowe

I was never really a much of a Rob Lowe fan during the Brat Pack days.  When I watched The Outsiders I crushed on Matt Dillon and Pony Boy instead.  When I, later on, watched Wayne's World [insert deep confession here] I crushed on Mike Meyers.  I didn't even see most of Rob's big hits because the pretty blue-eyed playboy thing just wasn't the right box office draw for me.

So, when I saw Rob had written a memoir and saw it had even earned rave reviews, I "ehh"ed and kept it on the back burner.  Then I read A Prairie Tale, Melissa Gilbert's life account, including saucy details of their torrid love affair, and I suddenly became curious of the "He Said".

Well turns out he didn't say much... about the couple's romance at least.  In fact, her name is only mentioned twice and only as a timeline device, as in "I was dating Melissa Gilbert at this time."  If you've picked up this book looking for sexual scandal, you've picked up the wrong book.  Some people are into graphic tell-alls, but I actually respected the author for not kissing and telling.  He definitely alludes to his "a different girl, a different night" habits, but is careful not to name names or be seedy or descriptive about it in any way.  Because that's not what the stories he only tells his friends are all about.

The stories he tells his friends, and has now included his reading audience in on, are epic.  In fact, I can see a biopic coming out sometime in his later years.  He has the classic nutty family that's practically a requirement for the best of autobiographical accounts.  A cowboy-seeming dad.  An over-the-cuckoo's-nest mom.  A quack of a doctor stepdad, who brings him and his family from the Midwest out to Malibu.  And, then things are just getting started.

Back home, Rob had already developed a love for community theater.  Being hit over the head, at a young age, with that cosmic hammer---that all thespians seem encounter at some point in life---gave him a drive I wish I had for anything at that age (or any age, for that matter.)  He had already had some insanely coincidental celebrity encounters back in Ohio, while on his quest for learning everything he could about the biz.  So, when lurking around his new California neighborhood, trying to meet friends and find a way to fit in, he was intrigued to come across some kids---looking to be about his age---who were running around town, filming home war and action movies.  These kids?  Oh, just some guys named... Emilio Estevez, Chris and Sean Penn. 

He soon befriends the local guys and works his way into costarring in some of their homemade flicks.  His circle eventually comes to include Charlie Sheen (more interested in becoming a pro-baller at the time), Emilio, the Penns, Holly Robinson and eventually Tom Cruise.

My favorite scenes from the book are the tales of these future Brat-Packers' high school days, running around town (including Rob's first frightening encounter with Martin Sheen, freshly home from a hellish Apocolypse Now shoot), auditioning together and heroically becoming stars together when a chunk of them land parts in Francis Ford Coppola's The Outsiders.  The film, who's the making of, provides even more favorite chapters and the movie set's behind-the-scenes tales could become a tome all their own.

He continues his Hollywood story through sobriety and up unto the present day.  As I was finishing up the last chapters, someone had snuck up beside me and asked what I was reading.  I sheepishly showed her the cover, to which she exclaimed, "Rob Lowe?  I wouldn't think he'd have much to say!" 

To which I replied, "Neither did I."

Songs of my Youth: Hello

"My sister loves Lionel Richie!"  I'd been caught chanting this on any number of occasion, in any number of places, at any given moment throughout the year of 1984. 

I loved Lionel Richie too, don't get me wrong.  His songs were on constant replay on my red-and-white striped portable record player as well.  It's just I loved Lionel Richie, the singer.  She loved Lionel Richie, the man!

This was her first confessed crush (mine was Ricky Schroeder) so there was definitely some novelty in finally knowing a name of a boy that my sister was in love with.  And as her little sister, of course, I felt it was my obligation was to taunt her and broadcast it to the world.  I'd been waiting for this kind of ammunition for years, without even realizing it!

Lionel Richie, the man.  We're all looking at the same picture up above, right?  I'm guessing, as far as  Lionel was concerned, this was his "come hither" face.  To me, it just looked like he was experiencing mild back pain while also suffering from several popcorn kernels lodged between the teeth.  To perfect the pose, someone in a frightening Halloween mask may have also been commissioned to jump out at him, at the most opportune moment, while screaming, "BOOGITY-BOO!"  [Flash bulb]  "Perfecto!  We've got our album cover!"  No, it may not plead "come hither", but it might possibly say, "Hello".  (If we talking strictly in the sense of horror movie--you hear footstep creaking in the hallway--"hellooo???")

Well, love knows not from whence it comes, but I certainly can tell you where love is declared.  On my older sister's bedroom wall and by way of a homemade "I ♥ Lionel Richie" sign that was scotch-taped to the poster below:

There must have been something alluring about that cheesy "Gotcha!" smile that tickled sister's fancy.  I don't know how many hours she spent daydreaming while looking at this shot (because I, obviously, wasn't allowed in her room by this point.)  But, I'd have to guess for probably at least as many hours as I spent pondering the physics involved in his sliding-down-the-pole pose.  Feet out?!  (Admit it.  You too think he's actually trampolining up, right?  Darn you eighties camera trickery!)

But, thankfully, she moved on to Scott Baio and eventually to my brother-in-law (the complete physical opposite of Lionel Richie.)  And, good thing too.  I'd hate to think how much embarrassment I could have caused her at she and Lionel's wedding.  "If anyone has just cause why this couple should not be lawfully wed..."  "Um.  I don't have any objections.  I just really need you to be frank with us before we proceed...  You were jumping on a trampoline in that shot, weren't you?" 

Phew.  We really dodged a bullet there.

But, even more than the pole jumping poster and the sisterly taunts, when I think of of Lionel Richie, I think of Hello.  The video is forever burned in my memory and the lyrics forever woven into my heartstrings.  (However wrongly they were actually woven for a couple of years.  As a kid I always sang, "I sometimes feel my heart wheel overflow ♫"  It was quite some time before I realized he was actually singing "heart will..."  Dang it, if you'd just enunciate Lionel!  I could easily explain my rendition though.  A heart wheel is like a water wheel.  It's the chamber of the heart in which the love is properly stirred and propelled.)

We all remember the video, right?  Performing arts teacher, Lionel, heart-achingly stalking his blind female student (student/teacher relations weren't so frowned upon in the mid-eighties...) who was, unknowingly and simultaneously, constructing this bust of our hero:

Perhaps she thought she was being taught by Billie Dee Williams?

He longed to see the sunlight in her hair.  I longed to know how she did her eye makeup with such precision, you know, considering...

But, cheesy video images aside.  The song does live on and on.  Just when you begin to forget how good and raw and simply poetic the lyrics are, someone else comes out with a marvelous remake of it and our hearts wheels overflow once again.

And, let's never forget the original:

Good Ol' TV

The good 'ol days. One TV for picture, one TV for sound.

Wednesday is not a great TV night.  I only have Modern Family on today's primetime agenda.  The need to be entertained by the glowing boob tube can be a strong force in my life.  But, there's not much temptation the better part of the week.  What happened to the days when you looked forward to the same shows every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...?  Every episode would be a good one and you could rely on reruns all summer long. 

These days every show is a "test" show.  Just as you get interested in one, they pull it!  By the time it returns to the lineup three months later, you've already replaced that time slot with a different new show.  Then it gets canceled.  Recyclable TV. 

I miss the good days when new shows had actual new concepts.  And, we would watch the reruns in the summer time because Rudy Huxable clenching her fists and singing, "Baby!  Baby! ♫" was just as hilarious upon multiple viewings.

I lived for The Cosby Show, The Muppet Show, Golden Girls, The Love Boat, The Brady Bunch, Diff'rent Strokes, Facts of Life, CHiPs, Who's the Boss, T.J. Hooker, Kate & Allie, Cagney & Lacey, Moonlighting, Head of the Class, Growing Pains, Family Ties, Simon and Simon, Dukes of Hazzard, Little House on the Prairie, Happy Days, The Waltons, Silver Spoons, Square Pegs and any other show I forgot to thank.

Sure, most programs were situation comedies or cop shows back then.  Maybe they weren't actually as good as I remember because I was just more easily impressed at that age.  But, I loved my TV time!

Hubba hubba!

I had my crushes:  Gopher, Peter Brady, Willis, Chad Allen, Gerald McRaney, Michael J. Fox, Luke Duke, Potsie, Ponch and any other dark-haired hunk with an odd nickname starting with "P".  Ricky Schroeder was the first guy I ever hung on my wall and the first name I ever drew a heart around on a Trapper Keeper.

I questioned how others became heart throbs: Kirk Cameron, Fred Savage and Doogie Howser with their Brillo pad hairdos.  (All handsome men now, though.)  Obnoxious Larry from Three's Company.  The teenage son from Mr. Belvedere.  And, how did Doc from The Love Boat get so much action?  That never made any sense.

There were the girls I wanted to be:  Alyssa Milano, the redhead from Head of the Class, Mallory Keaton, Jo from Facts of Life, Marcia Brady, the brunette daughter from Kate and Allie, Punky Brewster.

I'm the sole sister to escape this haircut.

The girls I wondered how they became sex symbols:  Joanie Cunningham, Janet from Three's Company, Julie and Vicki from The Love Boat. Mainly because they all had short hair and I didn't understand how a Dorothy Hamill  bowl cut could be deemed cute.  (Except on Joey Lawrence, of course.)

"Reality" TV was limited to the news and PBS documentaries.  Talent competitions were the likes of Star Search, Dance Fever and That's Incredible.  Variety shows were all the rage (Love you Carol Burnett!  Tug, tug.)  And, for some reason, we liked to watch other people dance. (Soul Train, Solid Gold, American Bandstand...)  Alot.

My younger brother, sister and I used to actually play American Bandstand.  One of us would be the camera man (That was the boring role, like being the banker in Monopoly.)  The other two would be the dancers.  We'd dance around lackadaisically until the cameraman (usually my brother) would aim at you, then you shake your bon-bon in overly-exaggerated ways for your "close-up".  Then, as the camera would move away, you'd go back to your lazy left-together, right-together move.  We were young, but we were observant!  Don't think we didn't notice Bandstand dancers!  We'd see you in the background looking bored, but when it was time for your close-up the arms would fly up, the hips would suddenly grind to life and your shoulders would react as if Pat Benatar had taken possession them.  Yeah, we were on to you too, lazy Solid Gold dancers.

There are still new concepts that crop up now and then to my utter delight.  And, some clever twists on classic concepts.  Rare gems like Lost, My So-Called Life, Freaks and Geeks (like Square Pegs, but with better writing), Glee, The Office (introducing America to the "They're filming a documentary in my workplace!" trend.)  And, cable TV has introduced us to rock docs, nostalgia countdowns (I Love the 80's, One Hit Wonders of the 90's...etc.) and home improvement makeover shows.  Ain't all bad.

So, some people may call me a TV addict but I don't think that's true.  I only watched 30 minutes of television tonight (Blogger pop quiz: Do you remember which show I was watching?)  I don't think I spend any more time in front of the tube than the average American viewer.  I just willingly admit to it.  And, I'm guessing most of you caught every vintage television reference and character I mentioned in the above paragraphs.  It's okay.  We're all in this together.  You take the good, you take the bad... It's how our nation unwinds.

Now, quick, raise your hand if you know who George Glass is.  Your hand is up!  I caught ya!

Songs of my Youth: Billie Jean

Sometimes I still moonwalk.  It's a tell-tale sign of the era I grew up. I was born in 1974, but people often mistake me for being younger than I am.  I need to remember to bust out a moonwalk in these times for the sake of timeline reference.  There's no better way to prove, "Ohhh... okay. 80's child."

I wanted nothing more in the early-to-mid 80's than to marry Michael Jackson.  I'm sure, at that age, I had no idea what marriage to the King of Pop would entail.  All I knew was that Brooke Shields was one lucky young lady.  My fantasy mostly consisted of hanging out at Neverland, playing with Bubbles the chimp, dancing around, nursing his scalp wounds and following my hubby anywhere he went (sidewalk and steps lighting the way.) 

I wasn't at the age yet where I was allowed to wallpaper my room with posters (thank you NKOTB for later opening up that door for me), so I used to take any MJ newspaper clippings I could find and tape them to the backside of my bedroom door.  In those days there was something Jackson-related in the paper almost every day, so anything even remotely MJ-esque went right up on the door. (Yes, Quincy Jones, Paul McCartney, Tito... that means you.)

The Thriller-era was my awakening to real music.  Up until then, it was nothing but Disney, Wheels on the Bus and Jimmy Crack Corn spinning on my red and white striped record player.  (Sometimes I'd also raid my mom's collection borrowing her Mamas and the Papas, Ricky Nelson and Beatles 33s. Barely connecting the dots that the wide-eyed mop top on the cover was also Michael's frequent duet partner.)  During the winter-time in Michigan we would have alot of indoor recess at school. Which meant, instead of playground privileges, we'd just have to run around the classroom for a half-an-hour or so and try not to injure the teacher in the process.  Kind Ms. Walkley would give us access to the class room record player and it would be the Thriller album and any MJ 45s over and over until the bell rang.  We could never get enough! 

I learned every lyric (by holding the tape recorder up to the radio, of course) and would memorize every scene from every video shown on the after school music video countdown.  I even liked Say, Say, Say (which I'm now assured wasn't the coolest.)  The goofy vaudevillian video having MJ and PMcC scamming their way around the country side (on behalf of the orphans, which makes it okay.)  I now realize the Linda McCartney cameo in it (wasn't letting her in Wings enough?) and was that Michael's own sister LaToya he was romancing toward the end?  (Ah, Jackson mysteries begin to unfold.) Lennon-McCartney may be one of the most celebrated writing duos in the annals of music history but, until I was of a proper age of understanding, Jackson-McCartney was the only collaboration for me.

Picking a favorite Michael Jackson song is like having a favorite Beatles one.  Impossible.  But, growing up, I know my heart definitely tugged toward Billie Jean.  Its video didn't represent the coolest of his leather jacket collection (that winner being Beat It.)  In fact, I wish his pants would have been better tailored, as not to replicate a garbage bag at the waist. (The fact that they ran out of leather toward the ankles, however, is a non-issue. I would have dug me some glittery socks!)  Wardrobe aside, it has a great beat and epic dance moves.  As memorable as Billie Jean was, it's certainly another to add to the list of confusing 80's videos. 

As a kid I was too mesmerized by light up sidewalks, baby tigers and upright toe-standing ("Ow!") to try to follow any inkling of plot.  Good thing too, because there are several holes in this one. 

Early on we see a white cat (whom, upon close inspection, may very well have been a small anteater) who turns into a tiger, who turns into a fabric swatch, who then turns back into a tiger once more.  Significance?  None.  I think MJ just liked to have exotic animals present at all times. 

Michael also spies a homeless man early on and decides to help him out.  But, with a silver dollar and a gaudy tuxedo?  Really?  Surely a Jackson and can do better than that!

Then we have the detective.  The worst P.I. in the history of private dicks.  Why is he stalking poor Michael like a fool?  I'm assuming he's involved with the paternity case being lamented about in the lyrics.  But, any sleuth worth his salt should be capable of finding his target at the end of a tell tale light-up trail.  (Or even by simply following the loud singing and dancing going on down the street.)  However much Billie Jean is paying him, it's entirely too much!

There's alot of magic involved as well.  Michael is unphotographical, begging the question "Is he really a ghost?"  (Case closed on the paternity suit if so.)  A womanly shape under the bed sheet. (I always wondered if a real woman played this part or if they just stuffed a mannequin under there.  Not hearing any squealing from Michael as he climbed in has me convinced its the latter.)  And, of course, the magical lighted walkway.

Moving on to the older woman in the window.  I'm not sure if this nosy neighbor in the fire escape scene is calling the cops on MJ, the detective, or just all the ruckus being made out there. Was it just too much stair-climbing for one night?  As scuzzy as a town in which Billie Jean resides, I have to say, I am impressed with its rapid police response.

I continued to follow Michael Jackson through the rest of the eighties and much of the nineties as well.  (Although, I was fine with not marrying him at this point. Thank you Lisa Marie for playing guinea pig for us on that one!) Up until his face started to warp and the creepy charges started being alleged.

In his death, though, the warm fuzzies found their way back into my heart.  Especially when I started hearing my niece and nephews singing Billie Jean, Beat It and Thriller around the house.  His catalogue was introduced to a new generation again On Demand and it was fun to go back and relive it all with them. 

His death was one of those that the world saw coming eventually. I don't know if anyone expected to see Michael as an eighty-year-old man.  But, it was one that still somehow shocked me when it came.  There were so many questions still out there, never to be answered.  But, in the weeks following it seemed to no longer matter.  His music breathed its second life and it was finally politically correct to love Michael again.

Songs of my Youth: Hungry Like the Wolf

I'm currently reading the Rob Sheffield memoir Talking to Girls About Duran Duran in which each chapter is dedicated to a song he grew up with and the memories that accompany it.  It started stirring up memories of my own and sounded like a fun idea, so I decided to give it a whirl with this first entry to my Songs of my Youth series.

Hungry Like The Wolf: May as well start with Duran Duran, considering the inspiration.  I spent much of the fourth and fifth grade drawing an upright "D" shadowed by a slanting "D" on all of my notebooks.  (I also used alot of no. 2 pencil lead on the flying VH logo because it was just so much fun to draw.) 

Duran Duran is my first new wave memory.  They were such a surreal contrast to anything I'd ever seen walking the streets of suburban Motown.  I loved any song of theirs that I could pick up on the FM radio and memorized as many lyrics, correctly or incorrectly, as I could make out.  (I'm sure I got the "Strut on a line. It's discord and rhyme" all wrong.)  They were men, they wore makeup AND they dyed their hair!  I read an article at the time where the band members stated that "We change our hair color as often as we change our underwear!" Being young enough to confuse analogies, I wondered if that meant they only changed their underwear every 4-6 weeks. 

I remember rushing home to watch the after school video shows on PBS and the other local public access channel (no MTV in my house!) to get my hour's worth of Madonna, Boy George, Prince, Tina, Cyndi, Huey Lewis and of course the boys from Duran Duran.  Every one of their videos was like a mini-movie. "Wild Boys" with its tribal theme and wacky chicken dancing.  The water torture scene sooo artsy cool but probably about five minutes longer than necessary. (Although, it was probably the best hair-washing Simon ever squeezed into that decade.)  In "Union of the Snake" we'd debate whether those women were wearing body paint or just really tight clothing.  (Considering we didn't know what body paint was at the time, the argument went mostly like this, "Is that clothes?! It looks like a blue naked body? What kind of clothing is that?! It almost looks like they just smeared paint on their bodies! Is that her...?  Gasp!")  In "The Reflex", I couldn't believe the technological advances of making it appear that water was actually splashing out from a movie screen! 

And, of course it was the "Hungry Like The Wolf" video that still confounds me to this day. It's senseless to put too much effort into trying to find meaning in any 80's era music video.  But, this video's journey is hard to make sense of.  Are they in India?  Mongolia?  It seems to be an Amazonian woman he's chasing down, but there's an Asian elephant bathing in the river so the geography doesn't add up.  His friends get to make out, but he's getting scratched all over the neck!  He keeps ending up back in the cafe, oops back in the jungle. Cafe, river, jungle, cafe.  Is that little boy his slave?  And, most of all, why oh why does he keep flipping that dang table over? (Are these guys really from Jersey?)

My wolf love was briefly tainted in 1989 thanks to Farrah Fawcett's TV movie Small Sacrifices.  Based on a true story where Farrah's character pulled her car over to the side of the road and shot her three children and herself in the arm (to fake a carjacking.)  One of her daughters survived the attack but was left temporarily mute.  She regains her ability to speak in time to testify against her mother at the trial.  What's this have to do with Duran Duran? Well, the murderous mother chose to play this song on the car radio as she picked off her children one by one.  In the most climatic part of the trial scene, the prosecuting attorney plays a cassette tape of "Hungry Like The Wolf" (Seen at 10:48 in the link here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqDuhvTnlSo).  Farrah's pencil tapping and boogie dancing in her chair eventually help convict her of murder. (11:30 here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNS6Z0F-ZTA&feature=related and 1:37 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiD-n0PdGTY&feature=related) 

Ugh! Poor boys!  I'm sure they recorded this with no intention of it one day becoming the soundtrack to a murder, but there it was.  Tainted in our minds for such a long time afterward.  And, it was a very long time before I could hear the tune without picturing Farrah tapping out of rhythm at the defense table.  But, you can't blame the music for sociopathic behavior and eventually my musical palate was cleansed of that bad taste.

The song still stands the test of time.  I know this because it's still playing in my car on a regular basis with my nine-year-old nephew in the back seat singing, "...disco and wine" over the lyrics "mouth is alive, with juices like wine." (He also sings along to the Foo Fighters "There goes my hero! Sodinary!") It's such a fun sing-along to the new generations that the kids gets mad when I change the title animal with every line. "...And, I'm hungry like a Bengal tiger ♫" "Nooo!" "...And, I'm hungry like a red panda!" "Kimmy! It's WOLF" (I also still say "a" instead of "the" in the title line, because that's always how I thought it went!)

Duran Duran.  Feminine manly men.  Hungry wild boys.  Soundtrack to murder.  Juices like wine.  And, nobody wore a pair of Cavaricci's better!

Phil Collins

I ♥ Phil Collins.  There's no way to segue into that, so that's going to be my opening paragraph.  Phil Collins... sigh.

Even when his head is detached and glowing red, there's just something dreamy about the bloke.  Something that gives me the allowance to think it's okay to start using British slang like "bloke".  When I was a kid I used to dream about marrying him and producing short and stout children together who would have impeccable senses of rhythm.  Phil Collins is an example to all of the men who think women only care about looks.  Talent goes a whole lot further in our opinion.  Piano, drums, guitar, silky smooth singing voice?  Sold!

And, not many artists have been successful in so many different genres.  He's done:

• Pop Fluff: "You Can't Hurry Love", "Sussudio" (I'm still not sure what that word means),"Don't Lose my Number", "Two Hearts" and "Something Happened on the Way to Heaven" who's video inexplicably features a ragamuffin dog running around Phil's rehearsal studio.  The dog runs across the craft services table without eating a thing (totally unrealistic), explores the building's catwalk system (ironic), poops on the rhythm guitarist's shoe (unbelievable, since the dog didn't have anything to eat) and stops the bass player's foot from tapping with his paw (which prompts Phil to dust the poor chap's shoe off with a towel.) The dog tries to play several instruments throughout the video as well. (You can see it all here:             http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKrGj73OsAY&ob=av2e)  I'm not really sure what the moral of the video is supposed to be since the dog never learns an instrument and nobody adopts him in the end.  It's in total opposition to that era's overly-literal pop video scene.  Remember all that late 80's/early 90's choreography where every "too", "two" or "to" lyric was accompanied by holding two fingers rhythmically in the air.  "Love" was a signal to cross your arms in front of your heart.  "You" consisted of pointing at a love interest, camera lens or sexy audience member.  Well, this video had none of that.  Just a dog running around for no reason with no tags or license.  Maybe it was some type of Benji movie promotion that I was just completely unaware of at that age.
• Cheesy Love Songs: "One More Night", "Groovy Kind of Love"
• Songs I Think are Romantic: "Take Me Home", "I Wish it Would Rain Down"
• Socially Conscious: "Another Day in Paradise"
• Remakes on Par With the Original Cyndi Lauper Version: "True Colors"
• The Disney Soundtrack: I love the fact that Phil Collins wrote the entire musical score to the animated version of Tarzan. All I have to do is hear the drums of "Stranger Like Me" or simply one measure of "You'll be in My Heart" and I'm instantly crying, "His parents are dead", "They're taking him away from his gorilla family!", "His gorilla momma's so sweet!" My heart instantly breaks and that's the power of Phil Collins.

• Intense "Rock":  "I Don't Care Anymore" and "In the Air Tonight".  I don't know why, but there was an urban legend circulating during my teen years about the story behind "In the Air Tonight".  In it, Phil Collins literally witnesses somebody drowning and simultaneously witnesses somebody not helping the victim.  (No mention of why he didn't step in himself.  Probably because he was busily penning these lyrics as the whole thing unfolded.)  As the story goes, years later he tracks down the man who didn't help. (How? He must have also lifted the man's identification while neither was helping the drowning victim.)  He gives the scoundrel front row tickets to one of his shows and as he's scornfully singing, "I was there and I saw what you did..." the spotlight shines on the man, he puts two and two together and is righteously shamed.  He goes home that night and kills himself.  The highlight of these years, for me, was calling into a radio station to request the song and getting the DJ to recount the myth on air.  (I still have my "performance" recorded somewhere on cassette tape. My end of the bit, besides requesting the song, was after each bullet point of the story the DJ told, I would agree with it by saying "Uh huh!" "Uh huh!" like a gum-smacking Valley girl. I wasn't told to do that... it's just what came out.  I wasn't built for live radio!) Well, as much as I did my part to spread the legend to the greater Detroit area, Mr. Collins has confirmed that the tale is obviously bogus.  But, a shadow of doubt still lingers when he says that the song is really about, "I don't know what the song is about... divorce... the only thing I can say about it is that's it's definitely in anger."  Not clearing things up enough and thus spawning the lesser-known urban legend #2, that he wrote it after walking in on somebody in bed with his wife.  Also causing one to question his instincts, "I'm not going to punch you.  I'm not going to shoot her.  I'm going to kindly excuse myself to the basement to write a song about this with a really killer drum track!"  Well, whatever the inspiration,  how much fun is it decades later to see Mike Tyson enjoy the tune so much? (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TbnXqhHJkk)  Mr. Phil Collins, ladies and gentlemen.  Standing the test of time.

I can't put my finger on the Phil Collins crush.  It must be a culmination of all of the above.  I have a similarly cheesy affection for Elton John music.  Elton John love, though, obviously screeches to a halt long before the baby fantasy stage.  There's just no way that's even a possibility.  But with Phil, ladies, just remember... he seems to divorce like clockwork!

Teen Crushes: Let it ride

I've got a couple of nieces with Beiber Fever. (One, with something more akin to the Beib-onic Plague!)  Each of you probably has a fellow loved one who will squeal at deafening units of loudness when that song comes on the radio.

As much as I may roll my eyes to fit in with the older ranks, it wouldn't be honest to pretend I can't empathize with these teeny-boppers.  Probably because I grew up with a little band called:

New

Kids

On

The

Block!

Yep, those same guys limping around on tour this summer with the Backstreet Boys.  (I just assume they're limping around because I am at this age. I can't imagine them still swinging their legs around to the "Oh-oh-oh-oh oh!" of the Right Stuff, but more power to them if they can!) I loved those boys and probably still wouldn't turn one away from my doorstep.

When I hear my niece squealing, getting mad at Selena Gomez or as I watch her add another poster to the wall, I'm sitting back and feeling fine. While other grown-ups are catching the hives from their daughter's/niece's/granddaughter's fever, I'm remembering the saving grace of teeny-bopper crushes: Saving yourself for _______.  (In my case, Joey McIntyre.)

Your little girl will, most likely, not have her innocence stolen by The Biebs.  She's just hoping she will. And, as an indirect result every pimply-faced boy at school will suffer in comparison and not have a chance in Hades of stealing her attention away.  No need to buy her an expensive chastity ring. A simple Beiber button from the 7-11 will suffice.

Never mind her spending all her allowance on posters, magazines, concert tickets and dolls.  I did the same thing.  See:

She may spend hours doing this:

...and this: 

But, remember those are hours she could have spent learning to roll joints behind the neighborhood dumpster.  She's just honing her creative skills. (And, that's my younger brother's arm you see in these. Bonus: Teen crushes may also breed sibling comraderie!)

Yes, you may find altered magazine clippings around the house:

That's okay, she's also practicing her editing skills.

So, you may as well look up that blonde-banged too-hip-to-be-hop pipsqueak's fan club address and put it somewhere for safe keeping. Trust me on this.  Because, in a few years when your daughter turns 16 and not pregnant, you're going to owe that Beiber a thank you card.