Loggins Must Die
Loggins must die. And not a quick, painless death, either. More
like one of those leisurely, torture-filled demises practiced by
the CIA in the top-secret prisons everyone knows about. I want 10,000-volt
nipple clamps on Kenny. I want rabid dogs on Kenny. I want Kenny
wearing a urine-soaked hood forced to listen to hour after hour
of Warrant's "Cherry Pie." I will not rest until this
happens. I want the man dead.
white hot, vitriolic hatred of Kenny isn't on a personal level.
He's probably a very lovely man who would cry in his organic granola
if he knew a mother of two in Austin, Texas harbored such ill will
against him. Now before you think me completely heartless, I admit
that I've enjoyed much of Kenny's music over the course of my lifetime.
I partied to "Footloose." I sang along to "I'm Alright."
"Your Mama Don't Dance and Your Daddy Don't Rock 'n Roll?"
Good stuff. Hell, I even rocked my babies to sleep listening to
his beautiful lullaby "Return to Pooh's Corner." But those
great times were instantly forgotten two years ago when my relationship
with Kenny took an ugly turn. Kenny was no longer my friend. Kenny
was a jackass.
retrospect, it probably wasn't a good idea to let a two-year-old
watch Top Gun. I'll admit to that failure as a parent. But
after our son Sam became obsessed with fighter jets, we didn't see
a problem with letting him watch the thrilling flying scenes. We
thought the most harm that would come from this would be just some
slight neurological damage due to early Val Kilmer exposure. Or
that he'd make us call him "Maverick" for six months.
Little did we know the real damage was that he'd become obsessed
with the movie's theme song, "Danger Zone". Written and
performed by Mr. Kenny Jackass Loggins.
get me wrong. "Danger Zone" isn't a bad song. I liked
it the same time the rest of the world did -- from June of 1986
to July of 1986. If you had told me then that I'd still be listening
to it almost 20 years later, I would have doubled over laughing
in my "Choose Life" t-shirt and white sunglasses and yelled
"Take off, Hoser!" then finished my Bartles and Jaymes.
But now I've learned what Jim Messina was silently trying to tell
the world all of those years -- Kenny is the devil.
first we thought it cute that our son, who could barely talk in
sentences, would try to sing "Danger Zone". We'd hear
him in his crib belting it out in baby talk -- "HIGHWAY DOO
DA ANGEE OWN!" My husband helpfully downloaded the song from
the Internet (where it was surprisingly free of charge) so we could
play it in our car. Sam would go absolutely nuts, dancing and singing
in his car seat. This was amusing for a while, but then he started
to demand we play the song. Loudly. For the next two years. We tried
to distract him. We played "I Spy," we talked to him,
and we even resorted to something we vowed we'd never do and bought
a Wiggles CD. But to no avail. Our little brainwashed monkey in
the backseat wanted "ANGEE OWN!!!" Now each trip in the
car consisted of listening to the song at least once. Usually twice,
or three times, or until mommy started jamming a juice box straw
into her ear to numb the pain. It was only the fact that my car
was leased that prevented me from driving it off a cliff. Well,
that and I had my child with me. After my sister had the DJ play
"Danger Zone" for Sam at her fricking wedding, I knew
we could no longer live like this. Something had to be done. Someone
had to pay. That someone was Kenny.
the back pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine and chose a
freelance mercenary named Gary who had a nice smile and low rates.
I researched aerial photographs of the Loggins compound in Northern
California. I watched America's Most Wanted to see what islands
were in vogue for those on the lam. Operation "Whenever I Call
You Friend" was a go.
then something miraculous happened. After two solid years of being
obsessed with fighter jets, one day Sam up and decided that dinosaurs
were his new thing and "Danger Zone" was suddenly no longer
at the top of the hit list. Days passed when I didn't hear it once.
The blood started to come back to my head. I threw away my antacids.
NPR made a return to my car radio and life was once again bearable.
"Danger Zone" was now a funny childhood memory we'd all
laugh about in 20 years. Like my parents giggling about how I was
such a loser in high school the only prom date I could get weighed
30 pounds less than me. Now that his auditory assault was over,
I even started to think more favorably of Kenny. I saw a picture
of him in a store and rather than trying to gouge his eyes out with
my car keys, I smiled and thought how cute his new hair plugs looked.
Kenny and I were on the mend.
home was Kenny-free for a good six months, but then once again things
took an ugly turn. Last week I came home to find both my sons, four-year-old
Sam and two-year-old Jack, watching Top Gun with the babysitter.
I furiously grabbed the remote, turned off the TV, and very firmly
quizzed her about how they got it out of the double-locked cabinet
marked "Do not open!" Then I took a deep breath and realized
that I was probably overreacting. This is most likely nothing, I
thought. Sam didn't seem to be really watching the movie, anyway,
so I'm sure he didn't even notice the song. Maybe our family was
still OK. Then Jack ran into the room and hugged my legs. "Hi,
Mommy!" he chirped.
sweetie," I replied. "What's going on?"
then flashed his gorgeous smile at me, threw his arms in the air
and yelled to the rafters, "HIGHWAY DO DA ANGEE OWN!!"
your ass, Kenny.
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