Mary, King of Scotch

This might be the Scotch talking, but I think if we all communed with God a little; if we all tied on our Robes of Important Thinking; if we all bogarted the smelly, probably-shouldn’t-view-this-in-a-blacklight, futon located in the dorm room of our inner Buddhist synagogue, we’d all agree that the best movie soundtrack of all time is, without doubt, Beverly Hills Cop (MCA Records, don’tcha know).

Hear me out. No, wait, don’t. It doesn’t matter. We just all agreed that we all agree, so there’s no need to hear me anything. What’s important is that when we tell this tale to our grandchildren, we acknowledge the king-making powers of the ’80s synthesizer, and how the world has dimmed a little since we abandoned its abundant use.

“But, Skippy!” You protest. “What about the soundtrack to ‘Beverly Hills Cop II’?”

Meh. Have we learned nothing about sequels? They get caught in jet engines; they get wrapped around revolving doors; they get snagged on rockets. (I may be confusing them with capes.) NO SEQUELS!

“Fine,” you acquiesce, not even suspecting you know how to spell ‘acquiesce’ (you don’t, but that wavy color line in your browser does), “what about the soundtrack to ‘The Karate Kid’?”

A quality challenge, indeed. Huzzah! Joe Espisito’s “You’re the Best” is almost insurmountable; it’s the montage tune all other montages inspire to be… but it suffers one fatal flaw.

I didn’t own that soundtrack. I was a kid, poor. Shut-up.

Danny Elfman, Patti LaBelle, The System, Harold Faltemeyer, Rockie Robbins, Shalamar… all artists who are relevant and I’m pretty sure still alive today; real taste-makers; bards and minstrels who influenced innumerable bands and rock stars such as The Beetles, Elves Presley, Bon Jehovah, Prunce, and Stevie Wander.

When I cycle with my kid to his school in the mornings, do I listen to his dreadfully painful tales of art, gym, social anxiety, and who offered him drugs the day before? No, of course not. I’m pedaling along, mentally rocking out to “Don’t Get Stopped in Beverly Hills” because it speaks to me, man. It says that one day I, too, will stuff a banana up the tail pipe of a cop car.

Do I love the Insta-Princess? Sure, why not? But do I love her more than Junior’s “Do You Really (Want My Love)”? Here’s the thing: marriages last forever when you never ask questions. (It’s a thing you can look up on the Internet. I promise.)

When they asked in the hospital after his birth, I named our second kid, “The Heat Is On” but won’t need to ever tell my wife because it’s her fault she was all epiduraled-out at the time. I don’t negotiate with terrorists or druggies. It’s a moral imperative, I feel.

Have you tried the “Beverly Hills Cop” soundtrack? I mean, REALLY tried it? Give it a whirl. Slip on your most fashionable housecoat; spray on your shiniest Soul Glow; feed your family the tastiest rat poison you can buy at the dollar store; do what you need to do to sit back, relax, and groove with the almost mystical desire to pack drugs in crates full of coffee grounds and open an art gallery. You’ll thank me.

Man. Scotch is maybe the best thing, ever.