that killed Sam and Bill
Uh, Bill. Are you sitting down in Heaven, buddy? I have some bad news�
The '70s will forever be the Me Decade, the '80s are enshrined as the Decade of Greed. So why have the '90s resisted categorization when the truth is so obvious?
As its last days slowly dwindle, I hereby proclaim this the Pissed Off '90s, or P.O.ed Decade for those of you who are overly sensitive, which itself is what truly pisses me off.
Sure, I understand why you're angry. I am too. Workers have been downsized to the point where job security is an oxymoron and Manpower Inc. is the nation's largest employer. The politically correct and the religious right take turns flipping each other down on the mat in the longest cage match in history. The idea of helping the less fortunate get a leg up is now considered naive. Elementary school kids are worried about sexually harassing each other. And a 4WD Kid To School Delivery Assault Vehicle is tapping at our collective rear bumpers.
So isn't it ironic (don't you think) that the two most pissed-off comedians in recent times died in the '90s. Bill Hicks succumbed to cancer and Sam Kinnison was crushed in a head-on car crash. This decade takes no prisoners.
The ghost of Sam�who performed in the Austin area shortly before his death, and like Hicks made his comedic mark first in Texas�would scream, shoot the bird and beg for mercy if he had to maneuver in our
traffic, where drivers look at you suspiciously if you motion that you will indeed let them merge in front of you.
My personal favorite is the tailgater who expects the car in front to magically go away, when that driver is actually tailgating another driver who is tailgating another driver who� You get the picture. I recently witnessed a guy in an economy car on I-35 tailgating an 18-wheeler. Ohhhh Oh OHHHHHHH!
Yes, we're pissed off in the '90s and you'd better watch your step. One wrong move and I'll file a lawsuit and alert the media, freedom of speech be damned.
Take Dinky, the lovable "Yo quiero Taco Bell" chihuahua from television commercials. At least one chapter of the League of United Latin American Citizens is angry because they believe the ad is a slam at Mexican-Americans.
I can understand the trauma of having people actually believe you eat at Taco Bell or thinking that Mexican-Americans speak like Peter Lorre. But the voice of Bill Hicks keeps echoing in my head. It's telling us
all to lighten up. IT'S ONLY A COMMERCIAL. IT CAN'T HURT YOU.
And don't make the mistake of thinking Dinky is an isolated incident (where did I leave that miniature pooper scooper?). This became abundantly clear recently when I was a guest on a KOOP radio program.
The host had graciously allowed me to bring my collection of Texas punk/new wave records from the very late '70s-early '80s.
KOOP was in the midst of a pledge drive, the radio show lasted just an hour and the host wanted to pop in a few of his own tunes as well. So I knew I was limited to six or seven songs at best to represent an entire
era in local music with which many listeners would be completely unfamiliar. I opted to stick with the big "hits" from a time in my life that I will forever cherish.
The first offender was "Too Young To Date," by D-Day, a band fronted by legendary Esther's Folliesperformer De Lewellen. Shortly after the sound of Lewellen, who co-write the song, trilling in a precocious little-girl voice about her menstrual cycle, the pledge drive phone rang.
No pledge here. The woman calling said she hoped no one ever pledged after hearing that disgusting song. The host looked worried, but let me pass him another well-worn album.