I don't even want to talk about it. We all know what a piece of shit this tune
was. Musically insipid, aurally lame, lyrically cloying and, on top of that,
inaccurate. This will tell you what a sappy lamer from the Bay Area knows about cold
weather. Chick and pony both die of exposure. No, not in a blizzard, not in a
hurricane or a sandstorm or a plains tornado -- a "killing frost" when a
pony she'd named Wildfire broke out of his stall or something like that. Get
real, how long was she out there, soaking wet and naked, looking for Glue Factory,
anyhow? A month? Anybody who lives in the northeast quadrant of the U.S.
knows a killing frost ain't all that damn cold. I mean, you know ... naked
and wet, you might die. But if you're an outdoorswoman like she's
insinuated to be by the lyrics, you know a damned sight better than to jump out
of the shower into sub-freezing weather to go look for a damn horse, eh?
Oh, but that's what you get when you
cross California, studios and musicians with a rich, rewarding fantasy life.
Maybe she was a model. They don't eat, after all, and perhaps six or
seven hours away from the heroin and Prada just sucked all the life out of
her soul. She might have had a soul, right? Or something that vaguely
resembled one.
Interestingly enough, now Michael Martin Couldn't Stand The Weather does
'country rap' "songs." As if either, the state it's in today, could be
remotely construed as consisting of anything vaguely resembling a "song."
Yee-haw. Maybe at least he knows a little more about horses and weather, now.