Lady Gaga is the ugliest chick that ever made me horny.
I’m an intellectual. I have a dog-eared copy of the World Atlas Of Wine. So it was a strange moment in my life when I began dancing to Lady Gaga’s music. To be fair, when I’m drunk, there’s not a hell of a lot I won’t dance to.
The shame. Can you imagine it?
No. No you can’t. Just me and that gay guy who married Liza Minelli. We get it. Both of us straying from our respective corners in the world, being terrified by what we saw, and returning like scolded kittens to our usual places in the world, sadder and wiser for the things that we have experienced.
That’s what dancing to Gaga is like. Will it kill me, I wonder?
I leave my venomous secrets to myself, especially when I come home for the holidays. I asked my mother what to buy my father for Christmas. Dad can be tough to shop for. My mother’s eyes glittered wildly.
“You need to buy him Pink’s new album.”
Not “should buy him”. Not even “maybe he’d like this…”
You need to buy him Pink’s new album.
I imagined my father, a retired Colonel in the United States Army, formerly working with that elusive wing called Psychological Operations. I fell back to childhood memories. My dad’s straightforward, no-nonsense approach to the world. His uncanny intelligence and cleverness. His love of Steely Dan. So my first question was similar to what your first thought probably would have been.
“Is this a trick?”
My mom frowned.
“No,” she said. “He loves at least five songs from that album.”
So I bought the album, all the time filled with misgivings. I wrapped it, all the time filled with misgivings. I set it underneath the tree, all the time filled with misgivings.
When Christmas morning arrived, my father opened my present and smiled faintly.
“Thanks a lot,” he said, and gave me a hug.
Mannheim Steamroller went off, “So What” came on.
It was a weird Christmas.
I think of Dad. I think of my brother, a rugby player who once argued with the referees when they wouldn’t let him continue playing due to an injury.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted, and his ear, hanging on by a scrap of skin, bobbed wildly.
I think of how he got stitched up, and hopped into his car with a grumble. His key turns in the ignition, and his stereo pours out the heartbreaking sissy rock of emo.
So, in a quest to find out where this bizarre music trend in my family came from, I did a little research, and discovered the following individuals:
Colin McKeeling — An Irish navvy who emigrated to America in the early 1920?s. He worked for the CCC as a ditch digger during the Great Depression, and broke a man’s jaw in 1935 during a barroom scuffle. His victim had apparently not enjoyed his rendition of “Good Ship Lollipop”.
Heinrich Keelink – A Hessian-born mercenary, Heinrich was employed by the British to counter the American rebellion of 1776. Between battles, he passed the time covering himself in feathers and performing as “The Magic Flute”‘s Papageno to a bemused audience of fellow mercs. During one such performance, Keelink and his friends were ambushed by Americans, who laughed at the bird-man, and called him a “flouncing bugger”. None survived Heinrich’s wrath.
Phil Keeling — American. Born 1982. Spends his time making jokes and writing stories. Does little manual labor, drinks often. Listens to Lady Gaga and dances to “Bad Romance” is public places. Doomed.