Post by bass_echo on Jul 13, 2005 11:47:24 GMT -5
I found this on another site, but thought it was too funny not to be shared here.
www.timesonline.com/site/news.cfm?newsid=14838441&BRD=2305&PAG=461&dept_id=478566&rfi=6
The kids and I were having movie night, watching a DVD called "Big Fat Liar."
There's a scene where the bad guy, a self-absorbed Hollywood producer, emerges from his mansion to take a morning dip in the pool. He punches a button on the wall, and Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" blares. The bad guy dances poolside, lunging and grimacing for all he's worth, before he gets in. (The punchline is that the water is full of blue dye, and he emerges still prancing and strutting, oblivious to his completely blue skin.)
It's a funny enough scene, but especially hilarious to a 7-year-old boy. Mine wanted to replay it over and over and over again - singing "Hungry Like the Wolf" all the while. He sang it for days. Literally. Days.
We came down to breakfast. "I'm lost and I'm found," he sang. "And I'm hungry like the wolf!"
We got bikes out for a bike ride. "Da da da da, da da da, da da da - da da da - da da!."
Dinnertime. "And I'm hungry like the wolf!"
My 10-year-old was at her wit's end. "Mom, make him stop," she said, repeatedly. And finally, "Tell him to sing something else. That song is so creepy."
Duran Duran? Creepy?
Suddenly, I think I know how adults felt when we used to make fun of Elvis in the mid-seventies. A bit puzzled. A bit hurt. A bit outraged.
I wasn't a huge Duran Duran fan (they hit it big when I was in college, and I was too snobbish about music, too much a Clash girl to go ga-ga over such pretty boys) but at the same time I had a soft spot for them.
Back then, they were a guilty pleasure; now, they are part of the soundtrack to the years when my life was less complicated, when planning ahead meant deciding where we were going to go out for the weekend.
Soon after this incident, a friend of mine was in a quandary. Her daughter was attending a camp with a different theme each day - crazy hair day, mismatched clothes day, and so on.
"Tomorrow is 1980's day," she said. "What on earth are they supposed to wear for that?"
We mulled over the possibilities. Big hair? Rubber bracelets a la Madonna? Leg warmers? Ripped jeans? Bulky shoulder pads?
None of it seemed that far removed from us. For crying out loud, I have clothes in my closet from the eighties. To me, the eighties aren't a joke, the way the sixties were back in the eighties. (I have vivid memories of dressing in a shiny purple miniskirt and strings of love beads for a sixties party in college and crowing with my friends - who were all dressed in what we thought were hippie clothes - about how goofy we looked.)
Then it hit me: They're making fun of us. "They" being anyone younger than 30. "Us" being, well, us.
Maybe this is the natural course of things that time starts whirring by more quickly as you age.
Maybe it's a natural side effect of having children - you pay less attention to pop culture and fashion because you're too darned busy doling out juice boxes and shopping for swimming diapers.
Maybe it's because the songs and atmosphere of your formative years stick with you forever. I'll freely admit that I think guys wearing eyeliner are cute, I still like my music fast and loud, and I haven't quite gotten over the habit of putting mousse on my bangs.
Creepy? Maybe.
But if my kids mention that word again, the Adam Ant albums are coming out.
www.timesonline.com/site/news.cfm?newsid=14838441&BRD=2305&PAG=461&dept_id=478566&rfi=6
The kids and I were having movie night, watching a DVD called "Big Fat Liar."
There's a scene where the bad guy, a self-absorbed Hollywood producer, emerges from his mansion to take a morning dip in the pool. He punches a button on the wall, and Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" blares. The bad guy dances poolside, lunging and grimacing for all he's worth, before he gets in. (The punchline is that the water is full of blue dye, and he emerges still prancing and strutting, oblivious to his completely blue skin.)
It's a funny enough scene, but especially hilarious to a 7-year-old boy. Mine wanted to replay it over and over and over again - singing "Hungry Like the Wolf" all the while. He sang it for days. Literally. Days.
We came down to breakfast. "I'm lost and I'm found," he sang. "And I'm hungry like the wolf!"
We got bikes out for a bike ride. "Da da da da, da da da, da da da - da da da - da da!."
Dinnertime. "And I'm hungry like the wolf!"
My 10-year-old was at her wit's end. "Mom, make him stop," she said, repeatedly. And finally, "Tell him to sing something else. That song is so creepy."
Duran Duran? Creepy?
Suddenly, I think I know how adults felt when we used to make fun of Elvis in the mid-seventies. A bit puzzled. A bit hurt. A bit outraged.
I wasn't a huge Duran Duran fan (they hit it big when I was in college, and I was too snobbish about music, too much a Clash girl to go ga-ga over such pretty boys) but at the same time I had a soft spot for them.
Back then, they were a guilty pleasure; now, they are part of the soundtrack to the years when my life was less complicated, when planning ahead meant deciding where we were going to go out for the weekend.
Soon after this incident, a friend of mine was in a quandary. Her daughter was attending a camp with a different theme each day - crazy hair day, mismatched clothes day, and so on.
"Tomorrow is 1980's day," she said. "What on earth are they supposed to wear for that?"
We mulled over the possibilities. Big hair? Rubber bracelets a la Madonna? Leg warmers? Ripped jeans? Bulky shoulder pads?
None of it seemed that far removed from us. For crying out loud, I have clothes in my closet from the eighties. To me, the eighties aren't a joke, the way the sixties were back in the eighties. (I have vivid memories of dressing in a shiny purple miniskirt and strings of love beads for a sixties party in college and crowing with my friends - who were all dressed in what we thought were hippie clothes - about how goofy we looked.)
Then it hit me: They're making fun of us. "They" being anyone younger than 30. "Us" being, well, us.
Maybe this is the natural course of things that time starts whirring by more quickly as you age.
Maybe it's a natural side effect of having children - you pay less attention to pop culture and fashion because you're too darned busy doling out juice boxes and shopping for swimming diapers.
Maybe it's because the songs and atmosphere of your formative years stick with you forever. I'll freely admit that I think guys wearing eyeliner are cute, I still like my music fast and loud, and I haven't quite gotten over the habit of putting mousse on my bangs.
Creepy? Maybe.
But if my kids mention that word again, the Adam Ant albums are coming out.
