So I was up late last night, which is entirely my own fault for being a night owl by disposition and encouraging this by having a long nap earlier in the day. (No school + no work = bliss and rest.) I decided to flip around and see what was on other channels. Normally I watch news, news, news, police procedurals about catching bad people, news, news, an occasional DVD, and news.
I saw Oliver Stone’s “The Doors,” something I’d already seen earlier, though I’ve struggled to remember how. Did I rent the VHS tape? Was it on cable? I’m fairly sure I didn’t pay a lot of money to go see it in a theater, as “theater manners” are getting more and more irritating to me in my advanced old age, what with the phones and chatting and squalling babies and seat-kicking and unrestrained children and excessive PDA and constant shouted commentary to the screen (as if the actors could hear–or care–about audience advice). It all makes me regret spending a lot of money to hang out with the general public in a dark room with sticky floors and uncomfortable seating for two or more hours these days. I’m just saying. The movie I go to theaters to see must be damned good to make the un-fun aspects of film attendance feasible.
I’d say that I could better use that money to go out and have a nice dinner, but “restaurant manners” aren’t much better. Believe me. When you pay $26 for that rack of lamb and broccolini-zucchini-feta-new potato combination, you’re secretly paying to get away from people who don’t want to pay $20 per child’s portion. Sad but true. Well-behaved children are a joy. Naughty, undisciplined children running amok and so forth while you’re trying to eat? Um, not so much. So, either forget about going out to eat for a reasonable per-plate fee, or pay the brat tax. (Not the CHILD tax, the BRAT tax. There’s a BIG difference. My friends do not have any ill-behaved brats.)
Anyway, the Doors film served to remind me of the brief infatuation I had with The Doors (yeah, yeah; me and a million other disaffected youths) in high school. Jim Morrison was undeniably bright and creative, but the best career move he made was probably to die under dodgy circumstances while on the lam in Paris. In a bathroom. Very Elvis. Anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock hid or her entire life has heard of The Doors, so no need to rehash the mythology involved. That isn’t even what I wanted to talk about, except as a counterpoint to what I was inflicted with during commercial breaks.
Okay, look. What marketing genius thought Yanni, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Madeleine Payroux CDs were appealing to people who like(d) The Doors? Metamucil adverts and adverts for SUVs and other kiddie kargo vehicles and infomercials for Hairclub For Men I can understand, as The Doors were a bit boomer-appealing even when I was in high school (technically, I was more than 25 years too late to be really into the band, but that still doesn’t stop me even now), but…geez! Yanni?! What the hell?
Even more funny is the physical similarities between present-day Yanni and latter-day Val Kilmer-as-Morrison. Shave off the Chester-the-Molester cookie-duster ‘stache, and they could be fraternal twins. So you have Kilmer rolling around on the floor in a drug-induced shamantic-esque swoon while yowling lyrics about Oedipal conflict and angst and so forth, and then you have a commercial about Yanni. What a total logical disconnect.
The tone-deaf neighbor across the way who doesn’t actually LIKE music (so she says, and so she proves on a regular basis) buys Yanni CDs. Before she admitted that, I was hard-pressed to figure out who the heck was doing that. Stop encouraging him!
I could still remember all the lyrics to the Doors songs and (somewhat shamefully) some of the poetry–I gave away a copy of American Prayer in college (because that much self-indulgence just pained me)–but I tell you what, I am not Yanni’s target audience.
I think I was a little insulted. Yanni. Bitches, please.