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Friday, September 26, 2003
I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On
Fuck. I used to want to be Robert Palmer.
Reading the stories of his passing this morning transported me back in time to another era, another Marc. As a child of the 80s, I was able to enjoy Palmer before he broke out as a solo artist, during his studio time with Power Station, and late through his last serious chart breakthroughs. In a decade marked by power pop from a man who would eventually go completely insane (see: Jackson, Michael) and hair-driven heavy metal (see: too goddamned many to count), Palmer stuck out like a sore thumb to me in the best possible way.
One thing that I think never changes for teenage boys, no matter the decade, is the desire to be in a band and achieve musical stardom. I think it’s imprinted in our genetic code; that, or it’s simply a response to the fact that guys in the band are the guys who get the girls, and that’s pretty much all we cared about. You can accept whichever excuse you like, but I was no different. In 1986, riding high on my newfound ability to drive an automobile, being a rock star was one of the things that really consumed me. If Hagar had decided to split with Van Halen after one album, I was fuckin’ ready, you dig? But then Palmer came along and my idea of the kind of rock star I wanted to be was forever changed.
Palmer was a man who seemingly didn’t know how to leave his house looking anything less than suave and cool. His sharp black suits and shiny shoes gave him the appearance of a singing James Bond; had he pulled out a PPK Walther and shot John Taylor in the video for “Some Like It Hot” it wouldn’t have been a shock. It would have looked as natural as him sitting down at the bar and ordering a cosmopolitan. But it was his videos for solo efforts such as “Addicted To Love” and “Simply Irresistible” that sealed his cachet. Those blank but gorgeous women playing as his band behind him not only held the attention of the viewer, but they locked you in to Palmer’s essence; you not only thought it was a great song, and that Palmer was a cool guy, but you couldn’t help but feel like it would have taken no effort for him to turn around after the cameras were off, grab a couple of the girls, and head off for the penthouse suite.
So what, you ask? Didn’t just about every rock star have that capability?
Sure. But Palmer was different. Your basic Vince Neil or David Lee Roth stood with their security guards and ordered up Heavy Metal Harlot #3 and Sister Skank #5 and slithered away to the back room, but that wasn’t who Palmer attracted. Palmer attracted women with a bit more of a mature and sophisticated nature, not ones you needed to de-louse upon stripping. It always struck me that Robert Palmer was the guy who’d play a club date and then wind up meeting the businesswoman and her friend who came to the show still dressed from that day’s meetings, and who then decided that they would try anything just once. Order that man another martini!
I also think that gave him the ability to sing his songs in a much more serious fashion than maybe others could have. Palmer could take a tune about turning down a woman for sex (“I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On”) and you believed that he was a guy who had to do it on more than one occasion. He was so sincere, and such a reservoir of cool, that there was no potential for self-mockery there, no falling into the trap that Dean Martin eventually set for himself.
So yeah, when I was 16, 17, 18-years old, I wanted to be in a band, and I wanted to be Robert Palmer. Eventually I let the dreams of music, but I never stopped being the guy who was attracted to mature and sensual looking women in great shoes. We all need something to carry us over, right? I’ve taken a few other things from him; you’ll rarely find me anywhere without the ability to groom myself. Change of clothes, mints, deodorant; it’s in my bag, baby, and it’s important to me. So today, I offer up a hearty thanks to Robert Palmer, and my best hopes for him in the afterlife. May he rest in peace. And may he look damned good in doing so.
3:48 PM
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Friday, September 19, 2003
I'm kind of sick of talking about negative shit right now, so I'm stepping off for this weekend. I will begin a desperate search for the positive as soon as I can find the time and get back to you all in a week.
Marc@MarcMason.com
10:43 PM
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Friday, September 12, 2003
”Death is everywhere…there are flies on the windscreen…”
Wow. I was hoping to get away from depression topics this week, but for fuck’s sake! The 9/11 anniversary yesterday rolled in, and then today the entertainment world was rocked by the losses of Johnny Cash and the eternal John Ritter.
Herein, I shall share a few thoughts about death:
- 9/11 Thing that pisses me off the most: the victims being used as propaganda fodder. Folks, no matter how much the Bush Administration tries to claim that those poor souls died for your freedom, it’s bullshit. The people who died in those tragedies died for someone else’s radical philosophy and their hatred. They died because there are millions of people who loathe the American way of life. But they did not die because they put on a uniform and went out and advanced our way of life (the Pentagon victims not withstanding). Dressing up insanity in any cloth is still insanity, whether it’s the government or Al-Qaeda. The 9/11 dead are in the afterlife because they had freedom. There’s a difference.
- Johnny Cash: He was 71 years old, and he still looked like a man you just didn’t want to fuck with in a bar fight. He was still making relevant and interesting music as well. We could all take more than a bit away from Cash’s full and rich life.
- John Ritter: This is the one that was a real gut punch for me. Ritter wasn’t even outwardly ill, he just collapsed on the set of his latest sitcom. Six days shy of 55-years old. Christ. Ritter helped define a generation of television comedy for me. He was a consummate professional who always seemed to be able to find a laugh in a script, even if there wasn’t one. Yes, Three’s Company launched him to mega-stardom, and rightfully so; the show had plenty of jiggle, but it was our ability to love Jack Tripper and follow him into the most absurd situations possible that kept it on the air. Later efforts such as Hooperman and Hearts Afire weren’t as huge, but they began to show us that Ritter’s talents were varied and mighty indeed. But it wasn’t until people began taking chances on him in drama, whether his excellent work in Sling Blade or his disturbingly creepy turn as a villain on Buffy The Vampire Slayer, that Ritter really began to get the respect he should have been accorded his entire career. Entertainment is lessened without him.
I’d love to give you a brilliant closing today, but I’m out of words. And I’m tired and talking and thinking about death.
Marc@MarcMason.com
2:38 PM
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Friday, September 05, 2003
Why Am I Still Alive?
A few years ago I was discussing some of my darker thoughts on our world with my friend Debbie, when she recoiled in horror at some of the things I had to say. “Why,” she asked, “do you even bother breathing if you really feel that way?”
Good question.
I didn’t have a good answer for her then, and honestly, it took me quite a few years to come up with one, because I wanted an answer that was truthful and full of meaning. So sue me. I also had no clue at that point in my life why I hadn’t already swallowed a bottled of sleeping pills or eaten a gun. But now I know.
The reason that I’ve never committed suicide, no matter how depressed I’ve been at various junctures in my life, is because I am a very arrogant son of a bitch.
What it boils down to is that I believe the world is a much more entertaining and interesting place as long as I’m in it, and it’ll suck for too many people if I leave prematurely. Nature has to take its course in order for my life to have the most thorough impact, and I’m a man who is rightly concerned with his legacy. Sort of makes me Presidential timbre, doesn’t it?
Plus, I’m not one for making and leaving a mess. Even before I met Rebecca, I was one of those rare straight men who was concerned with cleanliness and tidiness. Death by gun could ruin the paint and carpet. Bodily function failure at the time of passing could also do very unfortunate things to the carpet. That’s just not acceptable. If it happens by accident, that’s one thing. But to intentionally kill any chance my next of kin have of getting back a security deposit? That’s just rude.
I lost track of Deb years ago. I think she moved back to Maryland and got married. But if she was here, I’d make her read this so she had her answer. Now the rest of you all know, too. So if you ever hear that I died under mysterious circumstances, or someone claims that I committed suicide, don’t you believe it. Play amateur detective or do whatever you have to to discover the truth. Maybe you’ll even get a movie and book deal. Just make sure that Tom Cruise plays me in the flashback sequences.
Marc@MarcMason.com
10:33 PM
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