I had my first-ever MRI yesterday. Apparently, I am one of those fortunate, non-claustrophobic types who don't have a problem being confined, motionless to a groaning chamber that resembles a coffin.
In fact, as of yesterday, I am a firm believer that my years of begrudgingly attending noise shows trained me for this event. Over the tinty patterings of a local classical station, I was actually down with my cacophonous friend, the MRI. And just like most noise shows I've experienced in the past, the worst part was simply getting bored.
Am I one of the only people who never realized The Cramps are not the originators of "The Goo Goo Muck?" This blew my mind--slash--made me question everything I know. But damn, if this Ronnie Cook and the Gaylads version ain't true GREATNESS. And curse those gingerly dance steps, my goodness.
A general indicator of when it's time to stop (publicly) listening to an artist is when she becomes a four-year-old's hero. When that four-year-old is your niece named Charlotte (nicknamed "Lil Sis") who is a hundred times cooler than you ever were--or are--it means you keep openly loving Karen O., too. And you don't stop.