I have wanted to have this more prompt for the longest time, because now I can write about things that only women are interested in, and not get grief from the guys about it. Because, gentlemen, you don’t have to read the post. Ergo, the more prompt. Go. Shoo. Seeya.
Made you look.
I should probably have made this an Evil Meryl post.
Cruel!
Yes you should, reminds me of some of Lairs.
Actually, I fully intend to have some girl talk posts. Because now I can put up a “More” prompt when I want to talk about [looking around] [whisper] that time of the month.
[Snicker]
Hi, Meryl . . . I love your new look — light and breezy — and what could be more conspiratorily delicious than a “Girls only. No boys allowed” secret society?
Thanks for blogrolling me!
!@#$%^&*, Meryl!! How am I ever going to learn anything about women, if you open a secret section of your blog, and tell us to get lost? :(
They like to chat about the dresses they will wear tonight
They chew the fat about their tresses and the neighbor’s fight;
Inconsequential things that men don’t really care to know
Become essential things that women find so ap-pro-pos —
But that’s a dame, they’re all the same it’s just a game they call it . . .
Girl talk, girl talk
They all meow about the ups and downs of all their friends,
The who, the how, the why — they dish the dirt, it never ends.
The weaker sex, the “speaker” sex we mortal males behold
But though we joke, we wouldn’t trade you for a ton of gold.
–“Girl Talk” by Bobby Troup & Neil Hefti
It’s one of my favorite politically/sexually incorrect songs, perhaps second only to Bacharach/David’s “Wives And Lovers.”
The first vocal version I ever heard of it was by Johnny Hartman, who ad-libbed a line about catching hell from his gal if he made her miss that week’s episode of “Peyton Place.” Of course, quite a few women have recorded it as well. One of its most recent incarnations is a delightfully retro version by Cheryl Bentyne from Manhattan Transfer.
End of pedantic transmission from another panty-raiding male interloper . . .
I like that, Drew, but will Meryl? lol
Shhhh! Hugh, man–we’re not even supposed to be here. Keep posting like this and Ol’ Lady Yourish’ll tan our hides for sure! Once you’ve been dragged off a comment thread by your earlobe, you don’t soon forget it, I can tell you.
“Ol’ Lady”?
Ow! Ow! It hurts!
Drew, you do realize that I am now forced to remind you of this: The Night Chicago Died.
(It’s an old torture trick I used to play on Drew when we worked together, er, a long time ago.)
Indeed. For one brief shining week in mid-’74, Paper Lace had the No. 1 song in the country, then were never heard of again. They live on today only as one of the voices in my head. (In fact, it had finally quieted down, but then you . . . had . . . to . . . mention . . . it . . . again . . . )
In the UK, they’d won an “American Idol”-styled TV talent show and later had a hit with “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero.” I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief stateside that they were only known for one, not two, atrocious songs. (We were subjected to Bo Donaldson & The Heywoods’ version of “Billy” that same year, which was punishment enough.)
Bonus Paper Lace trivia: their rhythm guitar player Chris Morris was replaced by a guitarist who must have had some deep-rooted identity issues. His name was Carlo Santanna.
Damn. You had to raise me with Billy.
Damn.
You know what’s even worse? I REMEMBER THE GODDAMNED LYRICS TO THOSE SONGS!
I want the ability to edit sections of my brain, preferably with an “Erase Y/N?” command.