  Bedtime Stories
A Column by Todd Weber
Letters
to Todd
Recently I have
had to reconsider my participation as a
contributor to Pandemonium. Artistically, my
association with Pando has been nothing but
satisfying. I have had a free hand to report and
editorialize on a variety of subjects within the
realm of music. Having a column along side those
of the talented journalists who also reside on Pando
has been a tremendous honor.
The reason for
my consternation is the enormous amount of
negative e-mail that I have been receiving due to
many of my previous Bedtime
Stories columns. I don’t think I
have never been overly sensitive about my work,
and I have always welcomed constructive criticism
for whatever I have written. I can also handle
the occasional "you suck" type messages
that are sure to occur in this business. But the
kind of cruel, vicious and even threatening
messages that have shown up in my e-mail in the
past year, and the incidents that have surrounded
some of them, have completely shaken me.
In "Myths, Legends
and Just Plain Lies from Rock-n-Roll History," I thought the
vague title would justify any of the content that
might have been unbelievable or even slightly
offensive. However, my suggestion that Ozzy
Osborne was actually born Ozzy Osmond and was
later banished from the Osmond Brothers upset
more than a few members of the Mormon Church.
To one
particularly pompous letter from someone whose
title in the church was something like
"Grand Poobah," I replied simply,
"Yeah, but what do your wives think?"
This was a
mistake, because this guy was obviously somebody
with stature within the church. The next morning,
there were bundles of various church-related
pamphlets, newsletters and brochures stacked so
high on my porch that I could barely get my door
open. I pushed my way outside and walked to my
car. Upon opening the door, I noticed an Osmond
Brothers lunch box sitting on the front seat. I
picked up the lunch box and shook it lightly. I
was somewhat amused by all of this until I opened
the lunch box and saw the horror inside. It was a
Twinkie, still in its wrapper, smashed into a
creamy, crumby paste. What message was this
zealot trying to send? Did he somehow know that
this was my favorite snack cake, or was this just
a coincidence?
Later that
afternoon I noticed nine or ten young men with
white shirts and ties repeatedly riding by my
house on ten-speeds. They would scope the
premises, circle the block, and ride by and gawk
again. I suspected them as the culprits behind
the literature drop and the Twinkie mutilation,
so on their next pass by the house, I went out to
confront them. Before I could say anything, one
of the cyclists in the group spotted me, shouted
to the others "Let’s go!" and they
all sped off out of sight. I kept a close watch
outside the house for the next few hours and did
not see them again, and as night fell I assumed
that their mild intimidation had ended. I figured
that cruelty to confections was as far as a bunch
of religious missionaries would go.
I had almost
completely forgotten about the incidents by the
next morning, but as I walked out to my car one
of the white-shirted cyclists jumped out from
behind the garage, tossed a thick, creamy pie
into my face and shouted, "Donny and Marie
and the boys send their best!" I stumbled
after the man as I wiped the sticky meringue and
lemon filling out of my eyes. But by the time I
had gotten around the garage he had mounted his
bike, and he and his cohorts sped by me and rode
down the street, laughing, hooting and genuinely
sounding satisfied with their retribution. I
haven’t seen these men again, but I
haven’t been able to eat desserts of any
kind since these senseless acts occurred.
I took a
lighthearted look back at my early days of
fatherhood in "Confessions of a
Punk Rock Dad." The story revolved around
my continuous efforts to calm my young son during
his bouts of infant crying and agitation. As a
last resort one night I rocked Kyle to sleep with
help from a Ramones CD, and I successfully used
this method on many more nights. A cute, warm
story, right?
Not to the local
Child Abuse and Neglect Council, who sent me a
nasty e-mail that warned of the dangers of loud
sounds on little ears and the ill-effects of rock
music on a baby’s nervous system, lectured
me that my baby may be sleeping too much during
the day, and generally called me out for being a
lousy dad. I zipped a sarcastic note back a
couple of days later that said, "I took your
advice and ceased playing punk rock lullabies for
my baby. I’ve found that two short raps to
his head with a rubber mallet really helps him go
to sleep. When that hasn’t worked, a few
ounces of Pabst Blue Ribbon mixed in with his
formula have done the trick."
But once again a
flippant reply did me no favors. The next evening
two women from the Council showed up at my door
with a police officer, waving a printed version
of my e-mail, quoting Hillary Clinton’s
"global village" crap and threatening
to put Kyle into a foster home.
To assure them
that I was just kidding about the mallet and that
the Ramones had had no ill-effect on my
boy’s young brain, I called the now
six-year-old Kyle to the door. I thought a
demonstration of his cerebral abilities would do
the trick, so I said to him, "These folks
would like to know who the 16th president
was." That was all Kyle needed to get on a
roll, and he explained excitedly, "Abraham
Lincoln! And he was married to Mary Todd. He was
in charge of the war, and the South had slaves
and the North didn’t. We won the war, but
then John Wilkes Boothe shot Lincoln in a
theater." I cut him off before he could get
started on the Reconstruction, thanked him and he
returned to the t.v. for the O’Reilly
Factor. I said to the ladies and the officer,
"I think your work here is done," said
goodbye, and closed the door.
A story called
"In the Life of
Chloe" satirized Garth
Brooks’ recent portrayal of a fictional
rocker named Chris Gaines. I presented a bogus
report on Brooks’ next "project,"
a two-year ordeal where he would portray a
waitress with four distinct personalities.
The first few
days after the column originally ran, I received
about a half dozen e-mails that varied in
content. In one particularly graphic and
unnerving note, a man suggested that I
"wouldn’t know real talent if it bashed
my skull into a bloody pulp." He also
threatened to "two-step across my
face." His note was signed, "Digger,
San Quentin," and he added the ominous P.S.:
"I get out in 13 months."
A letter that
was signed simply, "Dr. Proctor, Ph.D"
got very deep, suggesting that I "simply do
not comprehend the impact that an artist of
Brooks’ stature has on society," and
that my "attempt at lampooning the greatness
that is Garth was laughable only in its
incompetence."
One lady
didn’t get the joke and actually
enthusiastically supported the Chloe project,
praising Brooks for his "courage to take on
new challenges," and ended with
"Godspeed, Mr. Brooks!"
An
eight-year-old girl sent a note that actually
made me feel quite bad. She said that Brooks was
her hero and wondered how I could have written
all those terrible lies about him. I was going to
write the girl a sincere apology, but as I was
looking through my "old mail" to find
her letter, I noticed that ALL of the Brooks
messages had
come from
the same e-mail address. Creepy.
Email
Todd Weber
Vist
the Bedtime
Stories Archive
Also
by Todd Weber:
Corporate Rock
Still Smokes
Todd
Weber examines rock's Y2notOK future and sees
singer-songwriters ruling the world, 'droids
spouting literature, and oodles of Marlboro
children. In Bedtime Stories
Can Danny
Partridge Still Rock?
On
the road again with a darkly experimental solo
project, TV's Bad Boy of Bass gives Todd Weber
his whole sad story, from succor at Juanita
Valdez to the disastrous Rumpelpunkskin. In Bedtime Stories
Confessions Of A
Punk Rock Dad
When Brahm's Lullaby doesn't
sedate the kids, try the Ramones, says Todd Weber
in Bedtime Stories
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