Damn.

You know what’s even worse? I REMEMBER THE GODDAMNED LYRICS TO THOSE SONGS!

I want the ability to edit sections of my brain, preferably with an “Erase Y/N?” command.

In the UK, they’d won an “American Idol”-styled TV talent show and later had a hit with “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero.” I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief stateside that they were only known for one, not two, atrocious songs. (We were subjected to Bo Donaldson & The Heywoods’ version of “Billy” that same year, which was punishment enough.)

Bonus Paper Lace trivia: their rhythm guitar player Chris Morris was replaced by a guitarist who must have had some deep-rooted identity issues. His name was Carlo Santanna.

Ow! Ow! It hurts!

Drew, you do realize that I am now forced to remind you of this: The Night Chicago Died.

(It’s an old torture trick I used to play on Drew when we worked together, er, a long time ago.)

They all meow about the ups and downs of all their friends,
The who, the how, the why — they dish the dirt, it never ends.
The weaker sex, the “speaker” sex we mortal males behold
But though we joke, we wouldn’t trade you for a ton of gold.

–“Girl Talk” by Bobby Troup & Neil Hefti

It’s one of my favorite politically/sexually incorrect songs, perhaps second only to Bacharach/David’s “Wives And Lovers.”

The first vocal version I ever heard of it was by Johnny Hartman, who ad-libbed a line about catching hell from his gal if he made her miss that week’s episode of “Peyton Place.” Of course, quite a few women have recorded it as well. One of its most recent incarnations is a delightfully retro version by Cheryl Bentyne from Manhattan Transfer.

End of pedantic transmission from another panty-raiding male interloper . . .

Thanks for blogrolling me!

[Snicker]