The Cairo Complex

I listened to Sublime’s self-titled album on the way to work this morning and by the end, I had formed a pretty solid opinion on what I perceived to be the band’s “purpose.” It was all negative, and I was determined to write a post deriding the band’s low message (especially the misogyny, misguided malcontent and under-the-influence nihilism), but realized the futility in trying to denounce a now defunct group with such a dedicated following.

I will say this, though: I don’t think I’ve ever listened to a band that seemed to more aggressively declare the tenants of slackerdom than Sublime. It just seems so inherently self-contradicting.

And for the record (my record, if nothing else), I can pinpoint the exact moment that I lost hope on this album. It’s about halfway through the song “April 29, 1992,” when Brad Nowell seemingly claims that seeing a woman steal pampers from a drug store during the L.A. riots somehow justifies his theft of alcohol and musical equipment as a legitimate act of civil disobedience. If he were alive (and I, for some reason, had the opportunity to talk to him), I would say “no, Brad, it just shows the danger of privileged suburban youth getting their drug-fueled delusions of grandeur confused with ‘street prophecy’.” But he’d probably just call me a punk ass.

Odd as this inspiration might be, I was listening to “Do You Love Me?” on KISS’s Destroyer this morning, and I had a briefly brilliant musing regarding romance.

In the song, Paul Stanley questions the legitimacy of an unnamed adorer’s affection. It is clear to Stanley that this person loves all the fancy living concomitant to his rock star stature (and the “7-inch heels” that support it), but he can’t help but ask if she really loves him.

Now, without getting into a complex analysis of what love really is (I personally wouldn’t even know where to start), I started to think about one of the song’s strongest implications; mainly, that certain aspects of a person’s life are not worthy of justifying love. By extension, the song is an indictment of all things shallow in romance, and a testament to the true meaning of love.

This is all well and good, except, I don’t buy it.

Money, fame, and private planes are just as appealing and worthy of a person’s romantic interests as any other aspect of their character. Indeed, the argument can be made that money and cars and mansions are “things” and are not at the crux of anyone’s personality, but I ask you to imagine what Gene Simmons would be like without his wealth. He wouldn’t be the same person. He’d just be some guy with an unusually long tongue.

Let’s delve a bit deeper: there are many who, if asked, would say that physical beauty is a necessary trait of their romantic interests. And there are many who would call those people shallow, for placing such an emphasis on a thing as transient as beauty (forgetting those, for a moment, who fetishize the elderly). But is beauty’s transience what makes it hallmark of the petty person’s checklist for lust?

If this is the case, then I challenge anyone to name a trait which isn’t prone to the same criticisms. I mean, just as surely as beauty, a person’s mind fades; slowly memories deteriorate, and mental agility stiffens with the rigors of age. Humor becomes tired and irrelevant. Kindness gives way to douchebaggery on a long enough timeline. I know for a fact my exes aren’t the same people that I used to know in most perceivable ways (I’d like to think they’ve all changed for the better). Even my self of yesteryear seems foreign in this day.

So then why should Mr. Stanley fret? He shouldn’t! Take love (whatever it is) as it comes, I say. And for whatever reason. And invest your money properly, because a diversified portfolio is sure to last a lot longer than wrinkle-free face.

Paramore, the emo band headed by barely legal Hayley Williams, will soon be remaking No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” from the highly successful mid-90s album, Tragic Kingdom.

There’s nothing wrong with this perse. I have no issue with remakes and covers and such in and of themselves. What bothers me is that a song that I grew up with is now considered in need of a remake. It feels not that long ago that I was drooling over Gwen Stefani… You know, before she started enslaving Asian children. Now some angsty good-fer-nothin’ whippersnapper is going to be a hippin’ and a hoppin’ while uttering phrases like “totally, yeah, Paramore rocks; they totally like redid this like old song by some band from like forever ago.”

My friend hit it right on the head when he said all we’ve got to look forward to now are prostate exams that come up negative.  

I like Bjork… Sure, it’s a little embarrassing to admit it, but that’s the way it is. No point in fighting it. 

I’ll go say my Hail Marys now.