Albums That Will Eternally Have A Place In My Heart: Def Leppard-"Hysteria" (1987)

For quite a while now, I've had the idea to discuss some of the albums that have had the greatest impacts on me. Now this isn't to say that the albums have necessarily held up over the years, although I still own most, if not all of them. I'm also not trying to argue that these are the best releases from each artist/band. No, I'm simply creating a list of albums that marked specific points in my life. Some of these albums were first heard or purchased on or near specific occurrences while others simply made me feel funny in my pants (I'll explain, don't worry.). I've broken out several of these discs out over the last few weeks and I can honestly say that I remember how I felt upon first (100+) listen(s). They will never be purged.

So, without further ado...I present to you...Def Leppard-"Hysteria."

If there is one thing that I know for certain, it is this: I started to notice girls mere minutes into my first listen of Def Leppard's album "Hysteria." It certainly didn't hurt that the album's opener was titled "Women," but that track was just the beginning. I swear that my voice dropped and I sprouted a shitty mustache over the next hour and several minutes. And this was before I saw any of the videos.

The album in question came out in 1987, but other than a few seconds here and there on the radio, I really didn't hear it until my sister brought a dubbed copy of it home from college one Friday night in the fall of 1988. And for this, I will forever be grateful to her.

As previously mentioned, it was a Friday night in the fall of 1988. I was in fifth grade. In 1988, it was the fashion for fifth graders to do absolutely nothing on Friday nights except perhaps sleep over at a friend's house, maybe catch some "Family Matters," etc, etc. My sis got home from a long week of classes at Shippensburg University sometime around 6, if my memory serves me correctly. After dinner, she began unpacking her laundry from the week and handed me a cassette with Def Leppard scribbled on the side. I was vaguely familiar with them. They had the one-armed drummer, right? I had heard a few seconds of "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and it seemed pretty cool. So, it sauntered over to my Panasonic boombox and tossed in the cassette. I can't remember for sure, but I don't think I spoke until the following Tuesday. The album was HUGE; unlike anything I had ever heard before. The guitars were bigger than life. Rick Allen's beats were thunderous (especially considering that he had/has 50% fewer arms than most people) and "Mutt" Lange's production was top-notch. There was absolutely nothing about this record that I didn't LOVE. The vocal harmonies were spot on, the lyrics were juuuust clear enough without being toooo clear. And even at the tender age of 11, I knew there was quite a bit of innuendo in these songs. I was blown away. This was music created by guys who constantly got laid for guys who constantly wanted to get laid. I suddenly wanted a Camaro. The urge to rip all the sleeves off of all my t-shirts was almost overwhelming. I wanted a one of those awful hands-free microphones that the bass-player wore in all the videos that depicted them playing live. Looking back, it's amazing I didn't accidentally become a father sometime in the summer of 1989 (Good thing my love affair with Tom Petty's "Full Moon Fever" happened when it did, but that's another story.).

In the coming weeks, I made numerous copies of this album for friends. Even at the tender age of 11, I recognized the value hidden away in miles and miles (feet and feet) of magnetic tape stored in this Memorex brand coffin. Sometime during this period, I began catching the videos that coincided with the release of the singles. "Armageddon It," "Pour Some Sugar On Me," "Rocket," "Love Bites" and "Hysteria" all seemed to be released mere minutes apart. The last two were kind of ballady, mid-tempo numbers that gave the band members an opportunity to catch their collective breaths between banging chicks and drinking beer. They were fine. But the first three were absolute barn-burners. These are the ones responsible for whisking me through puberty.

"Armageddon It" and "Pour Some Sugar On Me" were basically the same video: Live footage of the band playing the songs. Same concert. Same clothes (or lack thereof). Same hot groupies. These two songs, possibly the biggest, most popular singles on the entire record, were super-heavy to me in 1988. So heavy, in fact, that my friend Trevor and I would put the tape on a boombox in his garage and dunk on his (lowered to about 7 feet) basketball hoop for hours upon hours. We agreed that the album was full of psyche-songs (songs used to psyche oneself up) but agreed even more that those two tracks in particular were the epitome (although we didn't know that word) of awesome. So, the videos were pretty great, albeit normal. Nothing too crazy, but it was nice to be able to put faces to the sounds, if that makes sense. One thing that was drilled into my head as a result of these videos was that at least 75% of all rockers were allergic to shirts. They just couldn't wear them. I can only guess that they somehow hindered their abilities to obtain and subsequently maintain erections, but I can't be certain. The only consistent exception was the drummer who always seemed to wear t-shirts with his own face air-brushed on them. I can completely understand why a dude with one arm would not want to go shirtless, but c'mon...who wants to sleep with a guy who 1) sports an air-brushed shirt and 2) has his own face upon said shirt? OK, OK. EVERYONE, that's who. It didn't matter. They could have done anything and I would have thought it was incredible. The video for "Rocket" was badass as well. Tons of TVs showing tons of clips of England's premier glam and punk bands. It was so serious. Everything seemed to flash too quickly for my little fifth-grade mind to comprehend, but I loved it.

As I got older, I realized that what seemed to be so sexy and dangerous about this band, or rock in general, could easily be seen as homoerotic. Sure, 33 year-old me sees that, but 11 year-old me was sucked in and happy, for that matter. Was this Def Leppard's greatest album? Commercially, yes. But realistically? No. Did it, however, allow for the dropping of my voice a year or so early? Yes. Did it possibly act as a gateway album for other things heavy/sexy/dangerous? Possibly. Did I listen to it at work yesterday and still love every note of it? Absolutely.

Does It Still Hold Up?: Yes.
Is It Their Best Album?: No.
If No, What Is?: "Pyromania."
Do I Still Own A Copy Of This Album?: Yes. CD and LP.

The Hobo

So, as many of you already know, I recently purchased a ticket for my beautiful wife to go see one of her all-time favorite bands, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. Brenda has been in love with this band, and more specifically, Jon Spencer, for longer that I've known her. In fact, she loves the band's hunky front-man and namesake enough to have him as a rotating member of her *Top 5 List.

[*For anyone unfamiliar with the Top 5 List, the Top 5 List is a list of at least relatively famous people with whom one's significant other is entitled to "go all the way with" should the opportunity present itself. For example, Brenda's most recent lists have included Ryan Gosling and Taylor Kitsch from "Friday Night Lights." My list always has Rosario Dawson and almost always has former Russian ice-skater, *Katarina Witt. (*former skater, still Russian.) As the rules state, if a Top 5 member propositions the Top 5 list maker with any activity whatsoever, then said activity does not count as cheating seeing as though the odds of such a proposition is so far out of the realm of possibility. Understand?]

Now since this show is at a small club and my wife is a stone-cold fox, the chance of this type of "transaction" increases 10-fold. I have accepted this. And to combat the feelings of ineptitude and loneliness that I will undoubtedly feel after Brenda leaves to mary Mr. Explosion, I have devised the following plan: I am going to create a reality show called The Hobo.

Let me explain the inner workings of The Hobo. It will be almost identical to The Millionaire or The Bachelor in that I am going to essentially trick women into believing that I'm something that I am not. But whereas the guy on The Millionaire poses as some regular turd only to expose himself as a millionaire, I am going to pose as a regularturde only to expose myself as a drifter, or more specifically, a hobo. I'm going to shave my beard, hide my jaw-harp and lock away all my Tom Waits cds. And as much as it pains me to do so, I will refrain from eating *beans out of cans. (*I have never eaten beans out of cans.)

At the end of every round, I will line up all the unsuspecting women and present a stick and bindle to each lady who I feel will ultimately love me who I am, revealing tiny pieces of myself as the show goes on. You know, "accidentally" stumbling across a jar of moonshine in my fridge. Or strategically placing a *Boxcar Willie cd on a counter-top. (*I do not own a Boxcar Willie cd.) This will surely weed out the harlots who are only interested in my passion for soccer, black metal and raw fish.

On the last episode, when I pick my future bride, I will unveil my true self and the abandoned train car that we will dwell in for the rest of our lives while I spend the rest of eternity trying to figure out how Jon Spencer managed to steal my wonderful wife away from me. I think it could be a big hit. I mean I'd watch it.

So, in conclusion, I do not want my wife to leave me for Jon Spencer, or anyone for that matter, but fair is fair and he is on her list. But ultimately, I feel that it is a good idea to have a back-up plan. And The Hobo, no matter how far-fetched, is my plan. Now pass me some beans!!

Currently blasting: Chalk Circle-"Reflection"

Yes, We Have Lots of Bananas

First of all, I'm not going to acknowledge that it's been almost one year since my last post on this blog. But I guess that by not acknowledging it, I fully acknowledged it. (Please ignore the previous sentences.)

So, this story has less to do with absenteeism and more to do with bananas. More specifically: My love of bananas and the ridiculous things I end up doing with them and their peels. A few weeks ago, I threw a banana in my car to eat later in the day. For one reason or another, I forgot about the banana and left it in my car, eventually throwing in the back seat. That weekend, Isaac stayed at my parents' house. So, on that Sunday, Rosalie and I made the trek to McAlisterville to pick Isaac up. On the way home, I heard Isaac yelling at his sister saying, "Rosie, put that down!!" I briefly turned around to see Rosie eating through the peel of the banana; bringing it to her mouth much like one would play a harmonica. I grabbed it out of her hands and threw it on the passenger-side floor.

A few days later, while I was leaving work, I smelled the faint odor of a banana. After having already starting my drive home, I found the banana on the floor, right where I had tossed it just days earlier. Not wanting to leave it in my car and wanting even less to toss it out my car window for fear of being reported as a litter-bug, I did what any reasonable person would have done: I opened my sunroof and placed the old banana on my roof.

After a block or two, my crappy short-term memory kicked in and I immediately forgot about my attempt to free the banana. That is, until I came to the intersection of Maclay and 6th Street. I was the first car at the light. The first car on the perpendicular street ahead and to my right was waiting to make a left turn onto 6th Street. As we were both waiting, I saw him gaze upon the roof of my car in wonderment. Finally, he rolled down his window and motioned to let me know that something was sitting on my windshield. I gave him the "I know, I know" gesture and smiled. A few moments later, he made his left turn, pulled right beside me, rolled his window down the rest of the way and said "Yo! There's something on your roof." So I countered, "Yes, yes. It's a banana. I know." He rolled off and I flew home.

When I arrived home, I was disappointed to find that the banana had remained on my car. The plan was to jettison said banana without physically tossing it myself. I had failed. For the next three days, I drove from Carlisle to Harrisburg with a banana stuck to my trunk. Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, I wrapped the weathered banana around the top of my driver-side mirror in a last-ditch effort to get rid of the damned thing. (NOTE: My wife was proud of me the entire time. Don't believe her if she tells you otherwise.)

I got to work, the banana was gone. Huzzah!!

In a related story, I used to throw my banana peels on the roof of the Capital City Mall over the last three years that I worked there. I later heard from a very dear friend of mine that one morning after a particularly stormy night, he showed up to work to find tons of banana peels all over the parking lot. VICTORY!!! Maybe my next challenge will involve watermelon rinds.

Currently blasting: Ponytail-"Do Whatever You Want All The Time"