I'm not sure what it is that I've always found so attractive and fascinating about Blondie. I just think it would've been really cool to go shopping for tapestries or retro lamps with her. Besides the fact that in her day you could walk next to her wearing an ape suit and a Spider-Man mask and everybody would still be staring at her tits instead, Blondie was neat because she'd shoot these arrows on stage, never once feeling disencouraged by her poor aim or the fact that the arrows were really pool sticks cut in half. Plus, she had this vibe about her that tells me nothing could possibly phase her. You could tell her you cut holes in stuffed animal groin areas and sold them as sex toys for a living, and she'd still just smile at you and ask where the liquor was. For that, we salute her...it's just a pity that she's dead.
Read on, and cut me some slack, as I'm literally working through the worst sleep deprivation period of my life. That much should be clear, because when I made this webpage, I had set two very crystal clear rules in stone for myself:
1.- Only 1 out of every 5 articles could be about the Transformers.
I'm not going to go back and check the archives, but I'm pretty sure I've failed myself on both counts now.
I went in to the city today with Lolita, who decided that she too wanted weird hair dye. I guess she was feeling rebellious. Either that, or she really wants to be Franke Potenza. Now, even though they sell it five minutes away from us at a store in the mall that also sells glittery hair clips to help those teenagers display their creativity and angst accordingly, Lolita exploited the fact that I haven't slept in days to get me to agree to accompany her on this sordid mission...
But that's cool...I figured I could score some new stupid religious pamphlets to put on X-E or something. To be honest, I was out of cigarettes and too lazy to go to the store myself. But little did I know the torment that this little trip would cause. It brought us to one of the Village's many impulse/stupidity cosmetic shops. These stores are fantastic. I understand there's a lotta people swinging bohemian around here, but there's gotta be some cut-off point. If you did your entire wardrobe with what you found in this store, you'd come out and get mobbed by 35-year-olds who thought Twisted Sister got back together. But that's all unimportant. What is important....is that this store is where I saw...this...
Yeah. Wigs. Lots..and lots..of wigs. You may see nothing wrong with the wigs, and you're right - there's not a damn thing wrong with wigs. Especially wigs like this. Colorful wigs that'll land bald girls dates with closet cases who watched Rainbow Brite. Wigs that scream 'take me' while causing mass cravings for Push-Pops and Jell-O. So no, I've got no problem with the wigs. I've got a problem with the mannequinn head used to host the wigs....
I didn't need this. The death of Blondie isn't something I've ever found easy to cope with. I didn't need to be reminded of this. Debbie Harry's demise isn't something I try to think about too often...but it's kinda hard when you've got 10,000 mannequin heads that all look exactly like her staring at you.
My heart of glass raptured, I needed to once again pay my respects to everyone's favorite singing Playboy bunny. So I headed out to the cemetery...
Matt: Debbie...I don't know if you can...hear me in there...but just know that you continue to be a positive role model for me and mine...I don't know how I could've done it without you. Debbie...if I had a rose right now...there would be a 40% chance that I'd leave it here for you. I love you.
Then I started rambling off a bunch of nonsensical things about my personal life to the hedgestone. It's really weird. Some of you who've been to cemeteries know what I'm talking about. You go there with good intentions to pay your respects and maybe steal some increasingly-expensive roses, but you end up rambling to dead bodies about all the trials of your personal life. Cemeteries aren't your personal diaries...let the dead rest.
Poor Blondie. :(
To help get my mind off things, I went to go hang out with Lolita...where things just got worse..
Lolita: So where were you today?
Matt: Oh, I went to the cemetery to pay my respects to Blondie.
Lolita: Blondie? Debbie Harry Blondie?
Matt: Yeah, the one who was in that Sega CD game with Corey Haim.
Lolita: She's not dead, you idiot!
Matt: Haha, very funny. Don't toy with me.
Lolita: I'm not kidding! She just had a reunion tour like three months ago, you fool!
Matt: Come on, stop it. You know I can't take a joke.
Lolita: Matt...Blondie is alive.
Matt: NO! Blondie is dead. And I don't mean that in a figurative 'career' sense. She's dead! Worm-eaten corpse dead!
Why would Lolita say such a thing? If your loved one died, would you want someone nonchalantly suggesting they're still alive, off eating ice cream somewhere? Of course not. It's disrespectful. Still...the experience left me hollow...chilled to the bone. I was all alone. Again.
"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year, running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears, wish you were here..."
Well I had had just about enough. I couldn't live another day without Debbie Harry. I don't know how I had survived this long without her. I had to get her back...somehow. It took a bit of thought...Blondie used to shoot arrows...so Blondie was probably evil...so she probably went to Hell. I knew there was only one person who could help me now in my hour of desperation...
Yes. Satan. I had a plan...if Blondie was in Hell, surely there was something I could offer the devil to get him to set her free. Blondie and I could be together...happy. Here's what went down...
Matt: Hey, you're Satan, right?
Satan: Oh das right! I be smooth! Like butter! You might say...I'm Satan silk!
Matt: Oh no. Please. No more bad ghetto accents. Everyone I talk to has a really bad ghetto accent....
Satan: You be scriptin' dis, not me!
Matt: I've got a question about Debbie Harry, Satan...
Satan: Hey, before we get to that, what say we do a little dancin'?! Come on, fo', get down wit yo bad self! Dance with the devil, my man!
Matt: Satan, stop it!
You know, we really get all these horrible misconceptions about people we don't know personally. Like, I'm sure everyone thinks the Pope walks with a really bad limp. He doesn't. He's limber as hell. It's the same thing with Satan. I figured he'd be spitting blood at me and whispering how I was next. I never would've expected such jubilence for a Luciferian.
Matt: I'm here on serious business.
Satan: Alright, alright. What is it?
Matt: I want you to free Deborah Harry's soul.
Satan: She ain't dead, you idiot!
Matt: YES SHE IS!
Satan: I's prove it to ya! Blondie memorabilia...still reasonably priced, no?
Matt: Yeah, it's affordable. I wouldn't call it cheap, but the prices aren't Crazy Eddie insane or anything.
Satan: Exactly! If Blondie was dead, her market value would be through the roof! Anything with her name on it with be out in the stratosphere of cost! Get my point?
Matt: Does it have something to do with tomatoes?
Satan: Wrong. She's alive, mah man. Alive!
I don't care what anyone says. She's dead, and it's a sad day for us all. Rest in peace, Deb.