Myke Johns and Nick Tecosky are the producers of WRITE CLUB Atlanta. In an ill-conceived bid to remain hip and relevant and also to vent their anger and bile at people who actually are hip and relevant, they have devoted themselves to reviewing the #2 hit on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.
For the week of February 10th, the #2 hit on the Billboard charts is:
When I was 14 years old, I had a small black and white television in my bedroom. Most of the time, I used it to watch reruns of M*A*S*H from midnight to 2am, but for a glorious half-hour every weekday afternoon, I locked my door and quietly watched Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. I was too old for the show, and usually turned it off by the time they were fighting men in rubber suits, but there was a magnificent window of ten or so minutes wherein I could gaze upon the majesty of Amy Jo Johnson before she put on her Power Ranger costume and mask and became a faceless, sexless action figure. But for those few precious moments beforehand, I’d “express” my teenage fantasies. Ten minutes was more than enough time to “express myself” at least twice. I miss those Days of Potency. I really do.
Amy Jo Johnson was so much on my mind that I had a recurring erotic dream about her. In the dream, I would be standing on the shore of a great ocean, gazing out into the void, when I would hear footsteps in the white sands behind me. I’d turn, and there she’d stand: the Pink Ranger. She would beckon me toward her, and- smiling- I’d comply, moving slowly across the space that separated us, and gently removing her helmet. Amy’s hair would whip about her face, and she would smile seductively as she pulled me to the ground. And then sex. Or my clunky adolescent idea of sex, which I’m sure you don’t need for me to describe.
The point is, after watching Beyoncé’s video for “Drunk in Love,” I had that dream again for the first time in twenty years. Except when I removed the mask, it was Beyoncé’s visage that I saw. Also, Jay-Z sat off to the side, glass of cognac in hand, watching. When I looked toward him, he rolled his eyes and sighed. I was that bad at making love to his wife. I woke sweating, knowing that I would never be man enough to break up their marriage. Or- for that matter- Amy Jo Johnson’s.
TL;DR- I masturbated as a teenager.
I appreciate that Beyoncé is bringing back the old chestnut of the music video which seems to have been made solely to be masturbated to. It’s part of a grand tradition which includes Toni Braxton’s “You’re Making Me High,” Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Out Of My Head,” and most of Madonna’s early work. Bravo. It almost distracts from how patently goofy this song actually is.
Seriously, it seems to have been recorded while actually drunk. The last song I remember to go on at such length about a surfboard was on Weezer’s first album, and there’s some other stuff in there that is weird, but I actually can’t pull the video up and watch it right now as I am at work and if I YouTube it, I absolutely will involuntarily stick my hand down the front of my pants.
Yeah, no matter how ham-fisted the execution here, I’m convinced that if played backwards, you will actually hear Beyoncé saying “All good 30-somethings involuntarily stick your hands down your pants at work.” It’s like back in college when the constant radio play of Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumping” forced me into years of binge-drinking. Because I never would have come to that on my own.
This is not a rationalization.
These things are real: Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring” caused riots; Rezső Seress’s “Gloomy Sunday” caused a rash of suicides; Eve 6’s “Inside Out” caused me to punch a wall until my knuckles bled in 1998. I guess I’m saying that free will is a joke and that we are all slaves to the whims of our corporate media overlords. I hear that the entire country of Bolivia fell asleep for three whole days when “The Best of Billy Joel Vol. 2” was finally released there.
Following which, they woke up in the kitchen saying, “How the hell did this shit happen? Seriously, what did we do last night? I remember you suggested we listen to ‘Piano Man’ and now we’re peeling ourselves off of linoleum and my neck just doesn’t feel right, does yours? No? Yeah, this really hurts like hell–I may need to find a chiropractor and get readjusted after this. Do you think those dicks from Paraguay slipped us something? Because I feel like a whiskey piñata the day after Justin Bieber’s birthday and certainly not like some kind of metaphor for being deep in the throes of romance. Especially not with this raw-sewage-and-dried-saliva taste in my mouth and ‘River of Dreams’ ringing in my ears. The last thing I want to do is grind on that wood. More like grind on that ibuprofen and a pot of coffee, fuck.”
Bolivians everywhere then vowed never to listen to Billy Joel ever again. “I mean, we can’t just lose three days every time this happens,” they explained over a heavy breakfast of eggs and sausage. “We’re Bolivia, goddamnit, not Atlanta.”
[Ed note: Nick and Myke’s views on Beyoncé are their own and do not reflect the views of Scene Missing Magazine. It is this humble editor’s opinion that Beyoncé seems quite lovely and otherworldly on the beach in the “Drunk in Love” video, like the greyscale fever dream of a Hilton Head businessman who’s been drinking (watermelon), and that the song is charming, and that Jay-Z is underdressed. Surfboart.]
Illustration by Joe Karg.