I went through a ridiculous 80s phase in 1999-2000 which commanded me to buy every obscure collection of audio relics that I could find. (I miss the days of Mommy’s American Express card.) I scoured the Internet for all the underground gems, stuff that would never be played on your local pop station’s Flashback Friday. None of that Toni Basil ear-diarrhea, 99 annoying balloons and fuck your walk on sunshine while you’re at it. I really only liked the new wave, goth and synthpop 80s souvenirs. One of the CDs I bought had Cock Robin’s “When Your Heart is Weak” on it and it immediately went on one of the millions of mix tapes that littered the innards of my Eagle Talon. I used to sing this song with such exaggerated relish that my boyfriend at the time—Jeff— eventually banned it from being played in his presence.
My favorite part is when he says he’s going to come without warning. ORLY? I prefer it when my men blow a little trumpet to announce the arrival of their ejaculate, so I consider this to be a threat.
I thought this was the greatest song of all time. Then I saw the video and realized that this is also the greatest VIDEO OF ALL TIME. Yeah, I said it Kanye.
So now I have this sick fantasy of recreating it, which has really made me apply extra pressure on Henry because how great would it be to recreate this AT OUR WEDDING RECEPTION?
I made him watch it the other day while I stifled my laughter into his shoulder. He made it through 30 seconds before his eyes looked elsewhere.
And that’s when the biggest, brightest light bulb to date flicked on in my brain and I shouted, “No, fuck recreating it at the reception. This should BE OUR ACTUAL WEDDING.”
He looked at me dumbly. My inner sense of reality also looked at me dumbly. Don’t worry, I’ll work out the logistics. All you need to know is that by the end of the reenactment, Henry and I will be husband and wife. (For real, not the band husband&wife.)
Henry already has the flaming dorkiness of the singer down pat, and I’m sure I could figure out a way to pop up in front of the camera with a smoldering look that doesn’t at all look like the universal expression for constipation. I can already hit a ball of twine with the best of them, so I don’t have to worry about that part. And whoever I choose to be the drummer should consider himself one lucky motherfucker. That’s the BEST PART!
This song is about two minutes too long. He gets a little carried away at the end, so you can just imagine what it sounded like coming from me. (Jeff always maintained that I sounded like Pee Wee when I sang the “mmm-hmmms” at the end. Which is a great honor.)