In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy by Adam Carolla Page A

Sax Solos” (picture Rob Lowe in St. Elmo’s Fire) . The whole song was done on a Casio and represents everything that’s wrong with music. Imagine if you resurrected Hayden, Tchaikovsky, Janis Joplin, and Wes Montgomery, sat them down in a room, and played them that piece of cat shit rolled in AIDS jimmies known as “Maneater.” Then you told them, “This song made it all the way to number one.” They would never stop vomiting. Other than that, it’s an okay tune.
    I know what you’re saying. Hey, man, those are good songs, I like some of those songs. Please let me address this. None of these songs are good. They suck by all units of measurement. Cosmically and artistically, they all represent horrible work by the artist. The fact that you like them is a combination of the man pounding them into your brain and your brain being malleable enough not to fend off the shit barrage that program directors constantly bombard it with. My brain has a hard candy outer shell that is able to ward off the John Cougar Mellencamps and absorb the John Hiatts. That’s why I get to write a fucking book.
    The eighties were simultaneously the best decade and the worst decade for music. Everyone always does that “Oh, you were in high school in the early eighties, and that’s why you like all that music.” I don’t like the cars from the early eighties, I like the cars from the sixties. I hate the architecture from the early eighties, I like architecture from the twenties. Are you starting to get the picture? So shut the fuck up. I like the music from the early eighties because the Pretenders’ first albums and Joe Jackson’s first albums and Elvis Costello’s first albums were great, not because I was fifteen. But you wouldn’t know there was this much great music in the eighties if you ever tuned in to the eighties station on satellite radio or watched any VH1 flashback eighties shows or listened to any eighties weekend on your local radio station. Then it’s a lot of “Union of the Snake” by Duran Duran, Wham’s “Young Guns,” “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell, … it’s all the soundtrack to a really shitty Adam Sandler movie. It’s like we’re punishing ourselves. It’s called the Eighties Station, not the Super-Shitty Fucked-Out Horrible Songs from the Eighties Station. We could be hearing “Clubland” by Elvis Costello or “Stupefaction” by Graham Parker, but instead we get “The Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats. This is the equivalent to getting a sack of trail mix, picking out all the smoked almonds and peanut M&Ms, and just eating the raw sunflower seeds. Why are we fucking doing this to ourselves? There’s tons of great music out there. Why are we forced to listen to the biggest mistakes of the decade? If we’re going to go this route, shouldn’t we take a number-two pencil and shove it into one ear until it pops out the other?
    Indulge me for a moment while I directly address the gentleman who programs the Sirius XM eighties channel that’s in my wife’s car.
Dear Fuckstick:
You obviously don’t know shit about music or you’re a maniacal madperson who is trying to sonically punish those who pay a premium for satellite radio. If I hear “People Are People” by Depeche Mode one more fucking time on your piece-of-shit eighties station, I’m gonna buy a black-market Soviet ballistic missile and shoot down your fucking satellite.
    THEY WERE SO GAY AND WE WERE SO NAÏVE
    The Village People broke when I was in junior high. And even though they all had bushy mustaches and were singing about cruising YMCAs and shipping out with the navy, none of us had a clue they were gay. One of the guys was just dressed as a leather homo. He didn’t even have an occupation other than sucking cock. And we were still like, “Those guys must pull down a ton of chicks. It’d be awesome being one of the Village People. You must get pussy every night.” It’s not as though we didn’t know what gay was, we