So Lame Saturday: Wait

This was originally posted on June 7, 2014


What do you get when you cross a def leppard with a white lion?


An extremely confused and pissed off white leppard, of course.

Naming your band after an animal, especially in the tubular 80’s, was quite the rad thing to do.

I know this, because I was there.

More examples include:


John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band

Great White

Flock of Seagulls


Blue Oyster Cult

White Snake

I miss bee bopping to those guys, some of my favorite 80’s tunes.

I do not miss Quiet Riot, though. Those dudes were freaky deaky.


I just realized that Quiet Riot is not named after an animal, but I’m just going to go with it.

This weeks So Lame Saturday song was brought to us by the letter W.

Can you guess what the W stands for?

Way lame.

No hair band was ever as lame as poor White Lion, though I actually loved both of their only decent songs, “When The Children Cry” and “Wait.”

What can I say, I was 14 and had a thing for guys who were prettier than me.


Is he wearing my lip gloss?

I had the cassette and luckily for me, all I had to do was flip the tape over and I could listen to both songs back to back.

Over and over.

I dig kids and do not like when they cry, so I can’t really rip that one to shreds. I hope I didn’t disappoint anybody, but this bear has a huge heart.

No, the song that I can’t wait to blast like a water gun is “Wait.”  This song is so not as cool as I once thought. In fact, it’s extremely annoying and repetitive. See for yourself.

Wait – wait
I never had a chance to love you (Nanner.)
Wait – wait
If only our love could show you (Pfft.)
Wait – wait
I never wanna be without you (Tough poo.)
Wait – wait
No I never had a chance to love you
Now I only wanna say I love you
One more time

Fuck, no, no, no.

I had the hugest crush on this boy from the wrong side of town. He was the son of one of my mother’s friends. He was actually the first person to offer me a cigarette and guess what?

 I coughed my lungs out.

He had such pretty, sparkly blue eyes.

Anyways, every time I heard this song, I thought of him. But, he had absolutely no interest in prim and proper me.

I just wasn’t the sort of girl he usually dated. (I wasn’t enough of a skank ho, I guess.)

Oh, how badly I wanted him to “like me like me” back. You know the story. And I was like, majorly bummed.

When I watched the video for this song today, I instantly started laughing when I saw the lead singer looking so pained with his thick mane of curly blonde locks, being whipped about haphazardly.

Be careful, the lameness can bite without much provocation.



I can’t remember anything from my high school science class, but I can recall tons of random song lyrics.

Funny, ain’t it?

I was washing a dish this morning when I started singing this song from 1994 by Blues Traveler. I was a big fan of this band because of the harmonica.

There’s no deeper meaning to it that I can ascertain, it just sort of came from the ether of my fuzzy, fibro foggy mind.

Well look at that, I remembered a word from my boring science class!

(The dude watching the TV in the video looks a little sketchy if you ask me.)

Hook by Blues Traveler  1994  Written by John. C. Popper
It doesn’t matter what I say
So long as I sing with inflection
That makes you feel I’ll convey
Some inner truth or vast reflection
But I’ve said nothing so far
And I can keep it up for as long as it takes
And it don’t matter who you are
If I’m doing my job then it’s your resolve that breaks
Because the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook brings you back
On that you can rely
There is something amiss
I am being insincere
In fact I don’t mean any of this
Still my confession draws you near
To confuse the issue I refer
To familiar heroes from long ago
No matter how much Peter loved her
What made the Pan refuse to grow
Was that the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook brings you back
On that you can rely
Suck it in, suck it in, suck it in
If you’re Rin Tin Tin or Anne Boleyn
Make a desperate move or else you’ll win
And then begin to see
What you’re doing to me
This MTV is not for free
It’s so PC it’s killing me
So desperately I sing to thee of love
Sure but also rage and hate and pain and fear of self
And I can’t keep these feeling on the shelf
I’ve tried, well no, in fact I lied
Could be financial suicide but I’ve got too much pride inside
To hide or slide
I’ll do as I’ll decide and let it ride till until I’ve died
And only then shall I abide by this tide
Of catchy little tunes
Of hip three minute diddies
I wanna bust all your balloons
I wanna burn of all your cities to the ground
But I’ve found, I will not mess around
Unless I play then hey
I will go on all day
Hear what I say
I have a prayer to pray
That’s really all this was
And when I’m feeling stuck and need a buck
I don’t rely on luck
Because the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook
On that you can rely

Have a bluesy kind of weekend and don’t play with hooks, they’re dangerous.

The Dusty Passages of Memory

Sixteen candles might make a lovely light, but you can toast marshmallows over forty-three.


As you can clearly see, I’ve loved chocolate cake since an early age. Check out my chubby legs and that retro Pepsi bottle. I look like a mini sumo wrestler.


Because I secretly crave validation and attention, I must share the fact that today is my 43rd birthday. To some people, I’m still just a baby. To others, I’m as old as dirt itself.

I woke up today feeling absolutely no different from how I did yesterday. (Like shit, ahem.)

Aging is a gradual process and just because we celebrate the day of our birth, it doesn’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of things.

The only evidence that I’m older shows on my face, creases where none existed before and the glittery silver that streaks throughout my natural dark brown hair.

Also, my boobs just ain’t as perky as they used to be. Them’s the breaks.

My Aunt Merrie, one of my two namesakes, passed away of a brain aneurysm at the age of 36 while she was painting. I have outlived her by 7 years and I am grateful for that. I never got to meet her, nor my grandma Mary, who died of a heart attack in her early 50’s.

When I look at my 1st birthday photo up above, it makes me nostalgic for days gone by. My childhood was mostly a beautiful time in my life and I would give my entire Beatles record collection to go back for just one more day.

If I wanted to, I could buy myself a chocolate cake and eat the entire fucking thing (and then go into a diabetic coma.)

No, only a little baby with adorable fat folds has that right. Not a middle-aged women with a body that can’t process glucose correctly.

If I could, I’d crawl into that picture and give that baby a big hug. I’d whisper in her ear that life wasn’t always going to be that easy, but that she was strong enough to deal with it. I’d tell her to steer clear of douchebags, not to roast her skin in the sunshine using baby oil and to get better grades in school.

Then I’d grab a handful of that cake and skedaddle out of there, leaving 1975 forever in the dusty passages of memory.

Because no matter how we may wish that we could go back in time, that isn’t how any of this shit works.