Monday, February 9, 2009

Earth To Aliens: Where Is Steve Perry?

Can the extra-terrestrials who snatched Steve Perry from our planet, please return him to the Journey microphone? No one steered mulletted devotees toward truck-stop euphoria quite like that prancing fool. No one. So it’s anybody’s guess why the NASCAR militias haven’t threatened intergalactic reconnaissance. That said, while our beloved Portuguese son now hangs by the ankles in a cryogenic chamber, a succession of open-chested burnouts keep the Bay Area chicken rock rolling faithfully along. Hipsters be damned, Journey still dispenses overproduced kitsch as reliably as the milkman leaves quarts for grandma, the UPS guy tags your wife, and your semi-retarded friend (who never split town) offers you rides to the mall. Given that moustached meat eaters and their spawn continue ejaculating to “Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)”at fist pumping decibel levels, IROC-Z’s will forever roar in tribute to the 28th best-selling band. And the rest of us, well, we’ll remain mired in our daily routines, living just to find emotion.

Nonetheless, for intelligent aliens, nothing says “sloppy work” like beaming Steve’s larynx into a shaggy-haired Filipino at the NFL Super Bowl Tailgate Party. Envision the chaos of “ERROR! ERROR!” echoing throughout the spaceship command center, warning sirens ablare as E.T.’s kinfolk hurriedly yank levers and bang flashing buttons; a vexing dread hanging over their antennae. Meanwhile, our Philippine hero – trademark tenor perfected – vamps it up for thousands of city boys and small town girls, never aware of how narrowly he escaped laser incineration.

And please (deep sigh), let’s not have the racial conversation today. Let’s just not go there; it’s too pedestrian for the high-minded types perusing this treasure trove of influence. Everyone knows I love Asian people. Positively love the bastards. Believe me, I’d never let a white man within fifty feet of the engine assembly for my automobile, and I damn well wouldn’t trust a horde of Caucasians to manufacture my audiophile gear, serve me a plate of runny Chow Mein, or remove embarrassing stains from my dry cleaning. Entire dissertations could be penned on the marvels of nail salons, massage parlors, and bukkake, if only I wasn’t preoccupied writing this nonsense. Hell, General Tso even gets the occasional dinner nod in my outdated kitchen, assuming his soldierly place at what always feels like The Last Supper once greasy indigestion roils the innards.

Yet Steve Perry continues to rot in a hellish vortex. Joking aside, if anyone has the customer service number for NASA, or better yet, Stephen Hawking’s cell, now would mark an opportune time for disclosure. With Hawking’s comprehension of the space-time continuum and black holes (not to mention his thoroughly awesome DECTalk DTC01 voice synthesizer which would give Frampton and Sambora wet dreams for decades), he’s the reigning scientific colossus among mere mortals. Doc Brown excluded, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to manage Perry’s interstellar rescue and atmospheric re-entry in a DeLorean DMC-12 – flux capacitor in tow, Mr. Fusion in trunk – careening into the last Fotomat on earth. Because frankly, Steve, it’d be good to have you back. Lovin’ a music man ain’t always what it’s supposed to be. But I’m holding onto the feeling with the rest of the streetlight people.

3 comments:

jp said...

Since you mentioned it was quite interesting to see the bassist from Dream Theater singing lead for Journey at the Stupor Bowl. However, I wouldn't be counting on E.T., as he is currently occupied on HBO - after what? - 25 years of release? He won't be returning the beloved voice of CORPORATE ROCK to us, friend. You're more likely to see Mr. Perry accompanied by blue lightning, appearing out of thin air beside yoir loveseat, in an undersized telephone booth with a young Keanu Reeves and that other irrelevant blonde guy. Or, perhaps with Marty on a hoverboard.

In the end, the person to blame for all of this is none other than, yes, you guessed it, Steven Spielberg. Fuck Steven Speilberg. Do you realize how long it took that pompous diva of film to "allow us" to see E.T. on one of the paid movie channels? FUCK Steven Speilberg. Think it's a coincidence that Speilberg was one of "that pile of dung that is Bernie Madoff)'s (Ref Gary Ackerman's (R - New York) chastising of the SEC)) main clients, and is probably behind you at the Sizzler, in cognito, examining the pricks fix (intentional misspelling) menu? A little short on cash Stevie? Well FUCK YOU, STEVEN SPEILBERG! Your precious, ingenuous E.T. was kept selfishly in your pocket, away from those who would have liked to have seen it. Guess that doesn't apply now, does it? FUCK STEVEN SPEILBERG!! Sure, you "let us" see Goonies, and as an in the closet (now out of the closet) fan of Martha Plimpton, I do appreciate that. Perhaps you should have let E.T. have more airtime for the last 25 years. Does Michael Jackson need to be a guest on the set, making "close friends" with Corey Feldman to allow us to see your fleurking art? Well FUCK YOU. Now the fucking bassist from Dream Theater is copping for Steve Perry and E.T. is in hunt for the perfect Marigold somewhere in California, using a goddamn Speak and Spell to get back home, find Steve Perry, and send his ass back here to replace his Asian double. FUCK YOU, STEVEN SPEILBERG!!! FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!

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