BLAZE

Things to do instead of working: A composition by Leslie
(with apologies to those of you who weren't there)

Living in the 80s

It all began when video killed the radio star. We were living on video in freeze frame — life was a thriller. We were kids in America; we were up where we belonged. We had the time of our lives. We told time by the clock of the heart and wondered how soon is now? Life was urgent — we were hungry like the wolf. Life in a northern town somewhere down the crazy river was the best of times. There was always a situation at our house and your daddy don’t know whatcha did to my body. It was an adult education. We were having sweet dreams and talking in our sleep. We were doing aerobics and eurythmics — but where was the air supply? We were running with the night, running with the shadows of the night. We were running up that hill with no problems; we ran faster than the speed of night. We had the look — it was the look of love — but we were too shy. Too bad. We looked pretty in pink and electric blue, and wore psychedelic furs with black velvet and blue jean. In the cruel summer we went on vacation to Xanadu, Valotte, Graceland, and Echo Beach, far away in time — we ate rock lobster. We sat in the purple rain watching St. Elmo’s fire during the total eclipse of the heart. It was a nice day for a white wedding, but she blinded us with science. Luckily, we had the eyes of a stranger. We wore our sunglasses at night: the future was so bright, we had to wear shades on our Bette Davis eyes. We were on the loose, and the kid was hot tonight. Our moonlight desires got physical — we got our emotions in motion and did the stroke — but we did it for love, in the name of love. We did it one more time: we had endless love. We wanted to know what love is. We learned that love is like oxygen, love is a stranger, love is a battlefield — that love bites. We made modern love in a bizarre love triangle; we were addicted to love. Then we made tainted love and needed sexual healing. We let it go to rise up, like a virgin, like a prayer. Magic power was in the air tonight. You might think we fell out of touch, but we were living in a box, livin’ on a prayer. We had faith on the edge of seventeen. We looked for fame in the big time — what a feeling! We found the perfect way. At first it was rapture, but when doves cried, we were in jeopardy. We got the beat and were victims of fashion, but it was a glamorous life. Don’t it make ya feel like dancing? We were shadow dancing, dancing in the dark, dancing on the ceiling, dancing with tears in our eyes, dancing barefoot. We did the safety dance at the love shack — we were footloose. We were walking on sunshine, walking like Egyptians; we did the walk of life and got our money for nothing. We gave it straight from the heart, but then we had a change of heart. We wanted to go to the edge of heaven. Heaven was a place on earth where we made circles in the sand — I get weak just thinking about it. We were stepping out on electric avenue in erotic city, where the streets have no name. We were left of centre; it was an obsession that cuts like a knife. We were hyperactive with Dolby. We would shout and rebel yell — but voices carry. We lost our self-control; we were going nowhere fast. We learned to spin right round, like a record, while looking for a brand-new lover. We learned that girls just want to have fun, but don’t go messing with a girl with guns — this much is true. There was always something there to remind us.

One thing leads to another. We discovered we had broken wings and our beds were burning. Prince Charming turned out to be a goody two-shoes; he wouldn’t strip for his centerfold. We had to beat it; we ran so far away. We learned to hold the line in Africa while living in the land down under. We learned to stand back, but don’t give up — everybody wants to rule the world. Then came the hazy shade of winter. All you zombies can relax — don’t do it. We saw eyes without a face and an eye in the sky — no wonder we always felt somebody’s watching me — and who can it be now? The missionary man. Sister Christian, a maniac in the driver’s seat of her little red Corvette, took us down the middle of road on the freeway of love. Say it isn’t so! Of course, I’m only foolin’ — or is it just a twist in my sobriety? Perhaps it’s just the reflex: I still don’t like Mondays.