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The kind of frequency that could kill weeds

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The other day I was getting rid of some old junk on a bookcase to make room for some new junk and I came across something I hadn't seen in a while, my VHS copy of Heavy Metal Parking Lot. "Sweet Jesus!" I cried. "I've gotta watch this again - like, right now!"

For those of you who haven't seen this nifty little cult classic, it's pretty much what it says it is - a gathering of metal fans, pumped, primed and, in some cases, near comatose, doing what metal fans do best: hanging out, drinking beer and effusing wildly about the glories of metal. It was directed by Jeff Krulik and John Heyn, both of whom had the shrewd sense to scope out the choicest of locales in which to document this microcosm of society: the parking lot of the Capital Centre in Largo, Maryland, in 1986, hours before Judas Priest were to take the stage.

As I made myself a decidedly non-heavy metal pre-screening beverage (a gin martini, straight up), my mind clicked through the assortment of Devil's horn-waving friends that I'd made the first time I watched the film. Surprisingly, through the fog of time, most of Bud-and-bong-loaded bunch seemed to be variations on the same theme. There were your basic burnt-out metal dudes (no shirt, mullet, thin moustache, half-lidded eyes, Bud in hand); your jock-type metal dudes (muscle shirt, mullet, cock-tight acid-washed jeans, Bud in hand); and, of course, your metal chicks (zebra-striped top, spandex pants, blue eye shadow, Bud in hand). Years ago, they struck me as being hilariously funny and borderline appalling, the men squaring off and arguing who was the best guitarist in heavy metal (they would usually back up their statements with air guitar demonstrations of their heroes), while the women seemed hell-bent for both leather and the need to award sexual favors to anybody with a laminate. I made my drink quickly, for I couldn't wait to travel back in time to see my old pals.

And through the magic of half-inch tape, there they were! Like David, Bud in hand, sporting aviator shades, a muscle shirt and one of those Mike Reno handkerchiefs around his neck that were all-too-popular in the '80s. He's a little slow in the thinking department, but he has his 13-year-old girl, Dawn, by his side. Dawn is decked-out in zebra stripes, and she's totally fried. But boy, does she loves her man Dave, whom she says is off to the air force in a couple weeks. I was touched by her devotion to him, especially when she gives him a big sloppy French kiss - a nice touch.

Then there's Gram - "as in gram of dope." Stick thin, shirtless, beer in hand, Gram reminds me of a cross between a young Malcom Young from AC/DC and an even younger Jackie Earle Haley when he was in Breaking Away. Gram has a weird accent, not quite Southern but not Eastern either, sort of like he's stuck between two worlds. When he proudly asserts his moniker, "Gram of dope," it sounds as if he's saying, "Gram of dowp." I couldn't help but wonder what he's doing now. Maybe he'll be hitchhiking to Ozzfest this year, hoping for yet another camera crew.