Monday, April 20, 2009

Darn you, Shirley Manson. Darn you to heck.

Devastation takes many forms. Allow me to present three examples.

The Dow dropped 289.6 points today, representing the loss of many millions of dollars (which, on a related note, is many millions of dollars more than I have). Second, in the last two days, there were six earthquakes of a 5.0 magnitude or more, worldwide. And finally, I discovered today that my single least favorite character from the show, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, is the lead singer from a band that I idolized for a few weeks during high school.

Well, slightly idolized. This was before the Wikipedia web, and when considered in combination with the impressively sparse album art from Garbage: Version 2.0, it almost makes sense that I didn’t know what any of the band members looked like, and I didn’t care what their names were. You see, I heard a song on the radio one day, and was morbidly attracted to it’s distortion guitar, incomprehensible lyrics, and “new” sound. (I’ve since been attracted to women for similar reasons.)

All radio stations over-played the song, so it wasn’t long before I learned it was “Push It”, by Garbage. I rushed to put it on my “Must Have at Any Cost” list, and promptly bought it six months later from BMG Music on one of those “12 CD’s for the price of 1, and nothing more to buy EVER!” promotions. (I never did buy anything more, and now the brand is dead. I feel kind of responsible.)

I believe it’s a tribute to my innocence that I listened to every song at least 30 times before realizing, in what became one of the saddest moments of my adolescent life, that every single lyric in the entire album was a sexual innuendo.

Flash forward nearly a decade to the first new Summer Glau show to hit television since the cancellation (idiots!) of Firefly and subsequent release of Serenity (genius!). I slowly but surely fell in like with the new Terminator series, and all of its characters (welcome to a real show, Brian Austin Green), except Catherine Weaver, the pasty white redhead with the enormous forehead and the obnoxious voice. It’s a voice that only a mother could love.

And, as luck would have it, 12 million fans who bought her albums.

I think I almost cried at that realization. Well, I almost thought about crying. No, that’s not true either, I only thought about blogging. But if I felt emotions like a normal person, I would have thought about crying.

Some people would be enraptured with a ruthless killing machine who sings about sex. It actually sounds like the kind of plot that would get green-lighted as a made-for-TNT movie. But I’m not watching.**

Thank you, that is all.

** Unless it co-stars Bruce Campbell. I'll watch just about anything he's in.