An Adult's Guide to Children's Entertainment

One of the most overwhelming parts of parenting or babysitting a youngster is choosing from the vast array of materials that have been created for consumers under the age of 18. Without discussing the quality of these offerings--*cough*Hanna Montana*cough*--Disney alone is responsible for an astounding number of movies, shows, and CDs that exist today, and that's only one very fertile fish in the proverbial sea.

So as a companion and/or refresher to what many new parents and caregivers may consider a difficult time in navigating children's literature, movies, and music, I've summarized in a more adult fashion some of the old and new offerings available today.

In books:
Green Eggs and Ham--a commodities trader learns that the only way to overcome impossible quotas is to harass his prospects with rhyming sales propositions until they agree to try his unique product line. In an attempt to pitch Sam, his targeted potential customer, a variety of settings, including certain modes of transportation, were exploited to bend the consumer's will. What we learn here is that you can get people to do just about anything--even eat green meat--if you ask them over and over. (See also: my husband.)

In movies:
The Little Mermaid--our heroine, in the throes of lust, fails to retain legal counsel prior to signing certain iron-clad agreements with other mythical human/fish hybrid creatures. Let this be a lesson to fathers of young celebs everywhere: Had King Triton put a promise ring on Ariel's finger, instead of assigning a flamboyant crab to escort her into dodgy situations away from home, she would have simply been married, divorced, and dating Tony Romo by now.

Cinderella--a young woman enters the high-caliber dating scene and learns under high-pressure circumstances that part of getting the guy is hanging out with girls who are significantly less hot than you are. Also, everyone loves clear shoes. What I'll never understand is why the fairy godmother turned a pumpkin into a carriage for sending Cinderella to a ball, instead of turning a zucchini into a cell phone for calling social services on the wicked stepmother. Whatever.

Sleeping Beauty--either invite everyone you know, or don't let anyone crash your daughter's christening: That's what we learn from this tale of a young princess, Aurora, whose Sleep Number is changed from 45 to infinity the day she turns 16. This narcoleptic curse is exacted by Malifico, and becomes manifest when Aurora pricks her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel. Not only did the debacle ruin the entire spinning wheel industry, but sources close to the family reveal that Aurora and Malifico orchestrated the disagreement as a way to distract TMZ from covering Aurora's leaked sex tape with Prince Phillip.

In music:
"Little Bunny Foo Foo"--The People's Republic of Field Mice hires a mercenary with a heart of gold, the Good Fairy, to launch a counterstrike against The Foo's endless reign of terrorist tactics of frequent head-bopping, and perhaps, according to NPR, covert waterboarding.

In music/TV:
The Wiggles--Four dudes from Australia don a creepy sort of Star Trek system of color-coded outfit, to boldly go where maybe a few men have gone before, if you know what I mean. Most mothers agree that the television show is fine as a distraction while they're trying to prepare dinner or make out with the FedEx guy on the front porch, but listening to The Wiggles in the car is proven to cause severe suicidal tendencies, resulting in the urge to either drive your family off the nearest cliff, or park the car in a closed garage with the engine running.

Since this is just a sampler of the kinds of awesome entertainment available to kids today, look for future installments of An Adult's Guide to Children's Entertainment.

Well It's About Damn Time: My first-ever tag

Without knowing whether it's an insult or a compliment, it's taken me eight years of blogging (even before it was called blogging) to get "tagged."

Tagging, if you don't know because you're 400 years old like me, is the practice of sending some other blogger an exercise to complete, and then send the exercise on to others. Kind of like a chain letter that refrains from threatening a case of flesh eating bacteria if the recipient refuses to comply. In this case, I'm required to report eight random facts about myself, making sure to post the following rules first:

"Each player starts with eight random facts/habits or embarrassing things about themselves. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog."

Before I begin, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention I was tapped by the ever-brilliant writerJ. Chris Rock. If it hadn't been someone I admire so much, believe me, I would have included ten things about myself instead of eight, just to punish everyone.

And PS, these aren't random; you'll notice a theme. I'm sure I'll never be tagged in this town again.

8) When Styx came to Denver in 1983 on their Kilroy Was Here tour (the Mr. Roboto album), I saw Tommy Shaw jump off the stage and run through the audience just in time to jump down two rows of bleachers and pat him on the back.

7) When Def Leppard came to Denver on their Hysteria tour in 1987, a cameraman jumped in front of us for a one nanosecond shot. You can see part of my crispy bleached hair in the "Pour Some Sugar on Me" video.

6) After Quiet Riot opened for the Scorpions at Boulder's Balch Field House in 1984, guitarist Carlos Casavos threw what was left of his joint to me from the lighting catwalk where they watched the rest of the show.

5) I met Charo at the John Wayne Airport in 1977. She kissed me on the cheek and said, "Do ju want to come home with me, Yody?" My dad said, "I'll go with you Charo," to which my mom groaned, "Frank..."

4) When I asked Liberace for his autograph in a Denver restaurant in 1981, his "protege" waved his lace cuff in my face and hissed, "Not while he's eating!"

3) I sat in the Ceasar's Palace swim up bar with Rat Packer Joey Bishop in 1978. During the course of an hour I drank 47 Cokes and didn't pee once. OK, maybe once.

2) One of the Blue Man Group performers smudged my cheek with paint after a Vegas performance in 2001. He didn't use his finger, thus answering the question, "do you paint your whole body blue?"

1) When Bon Jovi came to Denver in 2003, a bouncer escorted my three friends and I to the stage, where we danced for three songs. I still have the backstage bracelet.

I'm tagging:
Pinckney Benedict
Laura Benedict
Paul Larosa
William L. Bryan
Nicole Del Sesto
Jen at Salt Publishing
Strong Pony
amy

Thank you,Denver! Goodnight!

Owning Up to My Music Collection, Part I: The Corrs

I saw the Corrs perform live as Conan O’Brien’s musical guest in 2000, way back when there was still a little lingering doubt that the show could go on with the same amount of hilarity without Andy Richter. (I guess we all know how that turned out.) The year before that, I’d bought the Corrs’ CD, Talk on Corners, and seeing them endorsed by my favorite modern-day, late-night pitch man validated that my music collection was pitch perfect, baby.

Oops.

I won’t be too hard on myself for loving the Corrs like I did. It was a time in my life when I was grasping at whatever good vibes I could get. I’d just been fired without warning by people I’d considered my friends. It was a harsh blow to my pride, and just two weeks after a surgeon had taken a drill and screws to my knee. Overnight, I’d become that sappy gal who was gimpy and moody, with a black mark on her resume and ketchup on her shirt, and there they were: The Corrs. They were beautiful, the one brother and three sisters. They were my Irish Partridge Family with dark, silky hair and peachy-creamy skin. And the noticeable, welcome absence of Danny Bonaduce. From my cheap condo with bad wall-to-wall carpeting and bad wall-to-wall dogs, I imagined them in their quaint little native village, writing songs and playing them under the moss- and dew-dipped thatch of their cottage, the unicorns munching sweet grass and thistles right outside the front door.

What seems like light years later, I now live in a major ski resort town, where you’ll find someone playing live music seven nights a week just about anywhere there’s space. Most of them are high-end hacks singing cover tunes and playing their guitars to the gimmicks they’ve made up to sell drinks. (Johnny Mogambo, I’m looking right at you, with your patrons lined up and ready to drink from the set of shot glasses you glued to the surface of an old ski, your cries of “Shotski!” reverberating down the whole valley. And to be fair, I’m not looking at Phil Long, a real musician who loved playing piano and guitar at the Red Lion so much that he bought the place, and continues to perform there every night. After ten o’clock, you can hear him sing and play an entire musical such as Jesus Christ Superstar or Annie, no shit.) With all the racket going on every night, and all the children’s music every day—The Wiggles in particular—you would think that my stereo selection of choice would be white noise at the least, and NPR at the most. For the most part, it is, but every now and then, when I’m alone in my car driving the I-70 corridor, I have been known to slip Talk On Corners into the CD player.

You’ll notice right off the bat, if you ever get the chance, that The Corrs is not just an Irish band. It’s an Irrrrish band, with the “r”s rolled up tight and the whiskey corks loose. For some reason, all the tin whistles and the bodhran beats are OK with me. The word “moonbeams” is used in two different songs, but somehow I get past that. It’s a lot of acoustic guitar, with the complete lack of a sizzling electric solo, a string section that's decidedly more violin than fiddle, quite a bit of tambourine--and instrument that's right up there with the cowbell in its underratedness--and maybe, I'm not sure, but I think just a hint of accordion in there somewhere. As someone who spent a good chunk of time measuring a band’s worth by the size of the hair and the power of the ballad, I can stick by Talk on Corners, and sometimes consider changing my name to Wee Paddy McFinn from Cork County in the process, because is it’s so goshdarn uplifting.

Yes, the lead vocals are too breezy and weak, which is probably the reason for all the harmonizing that’s going on in every track, but I can’t help but loop around to the third song on the album a few times. It’s my favorite, a real toe-tapper, entitled “So Young.”

Because it begins with a synthesized drum line and a nanosecond of scratching, “So Young” is the most modern, mainstream-sounding song you’ll find on the album. And let’s get it straight: It’s bright and fun and poppy. It’s just perfect for the opening sequence of a sitcom in which three girls move from their farm to New York, where they make it big simply by working hard and diligently refrain from sleeping with each other’s boyfriends. It’s the kind of song that I would use were I a producer working on a commercial for a feminine hygiene product, and in fact it’s become impossible for me to listen to “So Young” without watching in my mind the vivid image of a 20-something brunette, just as fresh-faced and feisty as you please, in white short-shorts. She’s doing something like leap-frogging a fire hydrant, for heaven’s sake. She’s so confident! So bold! Gosh, you’d never know she was on her period would you? Gee, just what kind of tampon has she got in there, anyway? Whatever it is, it's really working. Just as dry and as comfortable as any postmenopausal, pre-incontinence woman, that gal’s going places. And she’s getting there without any worry whatsoever of menstrual-related embarrassment.

And there you have it: The Corrs. I’m saying it. I’m unapologetic. Maybe I’m even prostheletizing a bit. Try it. Listen, if you can still find it. Put on those short-shorts and get out there, tiger. We can do it, even if we have to drink a Guinness first.