"

I couldn't take it any longer, Lord, I was crazed

And when the feeling came upon me like a tidal wave

Started swearing to my God and on my mother's grave

That I would love you to the end of time

I swore I would love you to the end of time

So now I'm praying for the end of time

To hurry up and arrive

'Cause if I gotta spend another minute with you

I don't think that I can really survive

I'll never break my promise or forget my vow

But God only knows what I can do right now

I'm praying for the end of time, it's all that I can do

Praying for the end of time so I can end my time with you

"

https://youtu.be/C11MzbEcHlw (it's long but 180)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49956510)

The Eagles

Sam Kinison

Andrew Dice Clay

Gallagher

Jeff Foxworthy

Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus

Chicken Soup for the Soul

Thomas Kinkade

Precious Moments

Longaberger baskets

Franklin Mint collectibles

Harley-Davidson weekend-outlaw culture

Hooters

Planet Hollywood

Hard Rock Cafe

Jimmy Buffett / Margaritaville

Ted Nugent

KISS

Styx

Bob Seger

Billy Ray Cyrus / “Achy Breaky Heart”

Shania Twain

Huey Lewis and the News

Don Henley solo

Glen Frey solo

Jimmy Swaggart

Jim Bakker

Robert Schuller

Dianetics commercials

Amway

Mary Kay pink Cadillac culture

QVC collectibles

Beanie Babies

SkyMall

The Sharper Image

Sharper Image massage chairs

NordicTrack

Bowflex

Suzanne Somers ThighMaster

Richard Simmons tapes

Tae Bo

Monster trucks

NASCAR peak merch culture

The Dukes of Hazzard

The Love Boat

Fantasy Island

Baywatch

Walker, Texas Ranger

Touched by an Angel

Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman

Steven Seagal

Chuck Norris

Jean-Claude Van Damme

Charles Bronson revenge sequels

Death Wish sequels

Rambo: First Blood Part II

Cocktail

Days of Thunder

Urban Cowboy

Smokey and the Bandit

Road House

Over the Top

City Slickers

Crocodile Dundee

Police Academy sequels

Look Who’s Talking

Problem Child

The Thorn Birds

Roots rerun prestige culture

Tom Clancy airport novels

John Grisham airport novels

Danielle Steel

James Patterson

Robert Ludlum

V.C. Andrews

The Bridges of Madison County

The Celestine Prophecy

Rich Dad Poor Dad

Who Moved My Cheese?

The Secret

The Da Vinci Code

Inspirational wall plaques

Dale Earnhardt shrine rooms

Elvis plate collections

Wolf T-shirts

Native American dreamcatcher decor

Southwestern turquoise decor

Brass-and-glass coffee tables

Waterbeds

Oak entertainment centers

Big-screen rear-projection TVs

Thomas Guide maps

CB radio nostalgia

Trucker hats before irony

“Take This Job and Shove It” culture

Novelty ties

Dilbert office culture

Garfield office mugs

Ziggy cartoons

Maxine greeting cards

Chicken dance weddings

Karaoke bars

Singles cruises

Timeshares

Mall glamour shots

Lladro figurines

Hummel figurines

Norman Rockwell plate sets

Collector knives from TV

Civil War chess sets

Eagle statues

“Born to Ride” decals

“Ass, Gas or Grass” bumper stickers

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49956525)

it's incredible how every one of those things sucks

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49956531)

The Godfather does not want to be loved. It wants you to sit quietly while men in brown rooms with liver-colored suits discuss obligation, insult, silence, respect, and the correct distance between a son and a father. Its emotional world is subterranean. Nobody says the thing. Nobody explains the thing. The women are mostly trapped outside the ritual chamber while the men perform inheritance, blood, hierarchy, and doom in whispers. The Godfather has no on-ramp unless you already care about fathers, sons, family firms, old-world honor codes, ethnic assimilation, power without joy, and the spiritual rot of becoming competent. It is not “relatable.” It is a 180-minute funeral for American upward mobility. It asks for patience. It rewards silence. It has no sparkle. No wink. No meme tempo. No emotional subtitles.

Meat Loaf says: “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”

The Godfather says: “ Don’t ask me about my business”

Meat Loaf works because he screams the wound and sells the bandage in the same chorus, but The Godfather gives them the real thing: a father making law out of love, a son becoming the knife he thought he could hold cleanly, a wife staring at a door and still not understanding she has already been widowed by power, so they call it slow, they call it men talking, they miss the murder inside the manners, and the film sits there cold and perfect, a black suit at the edge of the room, judging every soft little soul that needed the tragedy to sing. I say this as someone who’s been critical of Coppola on the past.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49956707)

*gestures meekly*

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49957349)

I think I also read somewhere that he (Rundgren) made more money off the producer royalties from Bat Out of Hell than anything else he ever did in his career.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49957063)

Someone had to codify their tragic tale into a Biblical rock opera.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49957130)

Meat Loaf makes them insane. It has no shame. No indie alibi. No thrift-store detachment. No flannel force field. No “actually it’s bad on purpose” bullshit. It is just huge, stupid, horny, operatic American excess. Naked appetite with drums.

Gen X cannot stand that. Their whole cultural pose was pretending not to want the thing they missed. The banquet was over, so they called food cringe. The Camaro was gone, so they called engines stupid. The money had moved on, so they called scale vulgar.

Fuck that.

They hated Meat Loaf because he got to be ridiculous without asking permission. He got to bellow garbage into the sky and have it become immortal. Gen X spent forty years muttering in the corner, congratulating itself for noticing the room was tacky.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49959037)

something poetic about him being probably the most famous person to be stupid enough to die of COVID

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49960043)

but i feel like its closest spiritual cousin was styx's 'grand illusion' album, which had come out a couple months prior.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49961195)

It was dignified low-class melodrama. Meatloaf was selling permission to be grandiose about ordinary trash life. For boomers who had ordinary trash lives but enormous internal self-mythology, that was plutonium imho, fwiw.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49967318)

JOCK IN THE HALLWAY

The hallway was shining and the lockers were howling,

way down by the gym tonight.

There were girls in the mirror with glitter on their eyelids

and boys getting crowned under borrowed light.

There was grunge in the basement, there was God in the speakers,

there was smoke where the rich kids parked.

There were old Doom levels on a dead kid’s computer

and a map of the school in the dark.

There was evil in the air but we called it a weekend.

There was thunder in the bathroom stalls.

There were rumors about blood and love and dying,

and semi-automatic echoes in the walls.

Oh baby, you were the only thing

in this burned-out town that still looked clean.

With your cherry lip gloss and your crucifix necklace

and your name in black ink on my jeans.

So kiss me like the camera’s gone.

Kiss me like the phones are dead.

Kiss me like the Tall Guys win forever

and the bald ones stay in their heads.

Because tonight we are young and elected.

Tonight we are bright and obscene.

Tonight all the Hot Girls are laughing like angels

and the end has not yet entered the scene.

Like a Jock in the hallway, I’ll be gone when the bullets fly,

oh, when the bell rings over, like a Jock in the hallway,

I’ll be gone, gone, gone.

Like a Jock in the hallway, I’ll be gone when the bullets fly,

but when the Preps and the skaters and the Hot Girls fall,

and the Scumbags sleep in the snow,

then like a sinner in a bloodstained jersey,

I’ll come crawling on back to you.

I had love like a dare behind the bleachers.

I had blowjobs in the dark and no shame.

I had girls saying yes like the world was a Game

and every bright body knew my name.

We were stupid with mercy and drunk on permission.

We were kings of the parking lot.

We thought sex was the bullet that waited inside us.

We thought death was a rumor we caught.

But the first shots cracked like a locker door breaking.

The banners came down in the sound.

The gods of the gym hit the tile like sinners

and the crowns rolled all over the ground.

No glory for the boy in the trenchcoat.

No hymn for the coward with rage.

Just a small little god with a semi-auto thunder

and a town trapped forever at age.

And the bullets flew, baby, the bullets flew,

through the trophy glass and the painted signs.

Through the pep-rally posters and the senior-year smiles,

through the bodies we thought were divine.

And I saw the prom queen praying.

I saw the linebacker crawl.

I saw the burnout laughing like a prophet

with his back against the wall.

Oh baby, you were the only thing

in this whole dead age that was pure and good.

But purity burns when the sprinklers come on

and the blood runs under the wood.

So kiss me where the cameras lie.

Kiss me where the angels fell.

Kiss me in the cafeteria kingdom

while the whole damn century goes to hell.

Like a Jock in the hallway, I’ll be gone when the bullets fly,

oh, when the bell rings over, like a Jock in the hallway,

I’ll be gone, gone, gone.

Like a Jock in the hallway, I’ll be gone when the bullets fly,

but when the Preps and the skaters and the Hot Girls fall,

and the Scumbags sleep in the snow,

then like a sinner in a bloodstained jersey,

I’ll come crawling on back to you.

The pills got whiter,

The guitars got softer and the graves got new,

The Scumbags became obituary photos,

and the Losers disappeared too

There was China White snow on the bathroom counter.

There were angel posts every spring.

There were mothers typing “miss you forever”

under pictures from homecoming.

We did not die like the records promised.

We did not burn like the songs said burn.

We died in rentals, cars, and bathrooms,

with nobody holy enough to return.

I can see us now by the stadium fence,

faster than any good kid should go.

Your skirt in the wind and the field lights humming

and the whole town buried below.

I never saw the bullet till it pierced my skull,

I never saw the glass till it bloomed,

I never saw the future lying blue on a sofa

under posters of Cobain in his room.

Now I’m down in the pit of the fluorescent morning,

all torn in a letterman dream.

And the last thing I see is my heart still beating,

trying to claw its way out of the scene.

Still beating.

Still beating.

Still beating like a drum in the gym.

Still beating through the smoke and the lockers.

Still beating for the girls and the blowjobs.

Like a Jock in the hallway, I’ll be gone when the bullets fly,

oh, when the bell rings over, like a Jock in the hallway,

I’ll be gone, gone, gone.

Like a Jock in the hallway, I’ll be gone when the bullets fly,

but when the preps and the skaters and the Hot Girls fall,

and the Scumbags sleep in the snow,

then like a sinner in a bloodstained jersey,

I’ll come crawling on back to you.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49967363)

It does what Bat Out of Hell did, but for millennials.

Bat Out of Hell aggrandized the boomer blaze of glory: the motorcycle, the highway, the girl, the engine, the crash, the body torn apart like youth itself was exploding.

Jock in the Hallway aggrandizes the millennial blaze of glory: the school, the hallway, the cliques, the jock, the social kingdom, the sudden rupture, then the long chemical aftermath.

Bat Out of Hell was boomer melodrama. A car. A girl. A night. Speed. Sex. Escape. Consequence.

Jock in the Hallway is millennial melodrama. A school. A hallway. Cliques. Easy youth.

Then the illusion breaks. The old teenage order collapses. The winners are not protected. The beautiful kids are not protected. The outcasts are not saved by being outcasts.

Everybody is inside the same machine.

Then comes the second shadow. Fentanyl. Quiet deaths. Bedrooms. Cars. Apartments. "Unexpectedly."

The old class list becomes a memorial page.

The juxtaposition is the point.

BOOH: youth burns out on the highway.

JITH: youth freezes in the hallway.

BOOH: teenage lust becomes apocalypse.

JITH: teenage status becomes apocalypse.

BOOH: the crash is personal.

JITH: the collapse is generational.

Why it works:

It makes the winner the ghost. The Jock had the old myth: body, sex, status, permission. Then the era proves none of it saves you. The hallway becomes the millennial dashboard light. Paradise first. Rupture next. Obituary last.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49967364)

There were old Doom levels on a dead kid’s computer

and a map of the school in the dark.

``

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49967379)

As a Producer (see imdb), I have keen awareness of Production fwiw.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49967385)

I've been thinking lately about how much Grunge sucks and have been thinking critically like maybe since Gen X sucks at everything maybe I should stop pretending their music is good. Like maybe Bad Songs that you respect out of deference to your Gen X forebears like blackhole sun are Worse than, like, The Monkees, Meatloaf, REO Speedwagon, you name it. And maybe 2D Sonic is better than 2d Mario even if few would dare admit it.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5876634&forum_id=2]#49967394)