Apocalypservice Industry
by Your Diva, Robin Pastorio-Newman

Welcome to the End Times. If you’re not up on Apocalyptic lore, a series of signs supposedly point out that time’s up, your 401K isn’t rolling over, and that sneaking suspicion was justified: your ratfink broker really was a demon. Your Darling, Your Diva, Your One True Love, amused observer of neon signs in the night sky, points to a Nissan Pathfinder commercial scored with "Blitzkrieg Bop" and says, "The horsemen are coming, and me without my chaps."

While Your Plunging Neckline ponders a Heaven big enough for herself and Newt Gingrich, one thing is clear: evil is afoot. Don’t deny it, we’ll just glare at your pleasing form and demand a numbers search of your scalp. Who doesn’t recall the fuss over "Blitzkrieg Bop" - the critical hoopla proclaiming the Ramones Neo-Nazi apologists? The Ramones said little about it because it was in their view too stupid to ponder, but that didn’t stop music writers - one blushes to think - from waxing vitriolic over their monosyllabic whipping boys. Hey, twenty-five years later, "Blitzkrieg Bop" is just a song. You got drunk and bashed your friends in the head to it. Wanna buy a car?

The mind reels. Let’s reel it back in and see what’s on the hook. Over the weekend, Your Daring Hemline had the good fortune to stumble on a Nipple/Instant Death/ Barbecue Bob and the Spareribs show, where skins were swing dancing and lawyers twisted the night away. The psychedic and spastic Nipple, brainy and brainless mad monster Instant Death, and the smoky, sexual Barbecue Bob almost couldn’t be more different, but the audience worked itself into a fine lather, rinse and repeat. Your Crisp Crinoline says: that’s punk rock, baby. Dance yourself sweat-soaked without spilling your drink, surf your music-inspired emotion; at an after-hours party, talk about Buddhism, race-relations and the time you hooked up with a drummer under an overpass. In the America of appropriated teen anthems, a genuine rock life is raw and secret. It roars out of the driveway before you arrive, it stumbles home in daylight. You’ve got the cops on speed dial when it lives next door, but it’s not selling you four-wheel drive with your youthful angst. In the soapbox derby between your friendly neighborhood Black Hats and real evil, advertising executives take the nickel-plated trophy.

Sensibly, you’re scanning the horizon for embers and cowboys. In this time of recession and wickedness, pity the unemployed jingle writer. Floor polish commercials set to "You Spin Me Round" are almost distasteful enough to make one see a halo over the head of Barry Manilow, writer of Coca Cola themes, etc. Almost. Remember: delusional is as delusional does, and you don’t have to join crazy people in hoping for the Rapture. Let’s put jingle writers back to work.

©2002 Robin Pastorio-Newman