Wire: "From the Nursery"

Wire_chairs

From this classic album comes the simplest, most disturbing explanation of what is wrong with us, and how it got that way. I'm no shrink, no expert. I'm not even a victim. But if you're not, someone you know is, even if you're unaware of the fact. You see them everywhere. Bruised, zombified souls, the wounds still visible despite decades of trying to hide them. It's heroic, but it's no way out of the abyss, if such a way even exists. I know the line about it being cyclical, an impossible pattern to break. I even understand it. But nothing will ever justify it. Nothing. Ever. The worst monsters among us, the ones that "normal" people love to see put to death for their crimes, were all someone's baby once. And that hatred for them is just another part of the cycle. I'm not here to be righteous either way. I only know that all world's misery that isn't the result of natural disasters and maybe a very few other things, comes directly from it. The first time I heard this, I was almost nauseous. The precision plodding, minimal changes, and muffled whimpers conjured nothing but the relentless dulling of the senses that those who live with it must have suffered. There's an ELP song with the lyric, "Don't be afraid / Man is man-made." I say, be afraid. Be very fucking afraid.  

 

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So truly jolly, an X-mas dolly / I talk on request, I'm never depressed
I'll wink a good time ‘til someone pokes me / One big blue eye out

So simply heady, a birthday teddy / Punches make me bleat, this bare soul is sweet
Keeping you warm at night ‘til someone rubs me / Hey, a fun-filled toy

A fun-filled toy

Free on a tightrope lives the animal soap / Safe, used, been tested, body molester
Amphibious charm, scum in several baths / Has blurred my features
Would you like to say / What that silence was meant to intend?
Would you like to see / What violence these eyes can send, send, send, send, send
To your heart
From the nursery?

Zzz_wire2

The Beatles, A to Z

I found this years ago, but it had already been around for ages. A DJ named Rob Grayson put together this compilation of snippets with, apparently, every Beatles song ever officially released (no anthology outtakes, boots, etc.), in alphabetical order, ending with part of "The Dream Is Over," and aired it a few days after Lennon was killed. The original link I found appears to be gone, but the story's out there (although there are lots of Rob Graysons to search through). I've also seen stream-only versions that appear to be slightly longer, but I just wanted to get this up and out there. It might be incomplete. There were some I'd never heard, or heard of, and I'm a hardcore fan. A few may be out of sequence, actual-title-wise. The sound's not always perfect, but so what? The sheer numbers, and according ratio of timelessness vs. the band's relatively short lifespan will never be experienced again---roughly eight years, a second or two of each tune, and it's still 15 minutes long. The mind fairly surrenders, and also at a universe of things that probably never would have happened without them. You'll have lived, breathed, eaten, drank, danced, worked, played, driven, laughed, cried, celebrated, commiserated, cuddled or fucked to something here, if not 98.5% of it. My sister even got married to one of 'em ("In My Life"). A true labor of love, and a reminder of how lucky and grateful I am to have shared the same time on this planet as them. No joke, and no pics required. Imagine. Thanks, Mr. Grayson, wherever you are.

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Blue Oyster Cult: "Redeemed"

From their self-titled debut:

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Don’t you give up, my young, young friends, here’s a story I think will please
How Sir Rastus Bear was in fact redeemed
Redeemed from the cell to which he’d been thrown
By men whose love was more for the ice and cold

Goblins of surcease, villains of wise
They pranced his brain on through the long, long night
Sir Rastus Bear who’d ever believe
You’d be by a song redeemed

Up on the north forty, I’m sure it was Christmas day
When Sir Rastus Bear taught children how to play
Games of life and love, and songs, oh those songs
Oh those deep but true, hill country songs

Redeemed good Lord, from the ice and cold
Redeemed from the cell to which I’ve been thrown
Redeemed by virtue of a country song
And I believe good Lord, it won’t be long

Thanks (late), but no thanks (early)

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At least I didn't start with, "Let's talk turkey." Oops, sorry. Okay, not really. I did a gratitude thing here two years ago. I suppose I should be feelin' it, but it just won't register. I'm dealing with more shit than ever, am broker than ever, getting jerked around more than ever, and am just a miserable prick-o-la in general and not ashamed to say so. And the worst is yet to come. It started already. The night after Thanksgiving, I got in the car of a sweetheart older woman to attend a meeting. And the radio is cranking that "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" song. No. No, it's not. And it's also not even December. At least they followed it up with The Pretenders' Christmas song "2,000 Miles," which is actually quite lovely, despite being about fuckin' Christmas. Alas, it was a bit too rockin' for my gracious driver (even though it doesn't really rock), and she put the kibosh on it. So I'm somewhat grateful for that. 

And now Daylight Savings Time is in effect. (They should reverse it, if anything, so it's more sun in winter and cools off earlier in the summer, but of course it'll never happen.) With that comes a months-long wave of depression that no amount of fuckin' reindeer, elves, fruitcake, twinkly light displays, candy canes, tinsel, music geared to sheep, or especially, religion, can ever remedy. I should also admit that invariably, it makes me cry at some point, and I kinda resent that. Otherwise, when I think of Christmas, I think of 4-foot mounds of black slush, falling on my ass, pneumonia, and not much else. Back to this subject shortly. 

I'm grateful for one other thing right this second. I got to visit my aunt and uncle for the ol' festive bird dealie. They're kind and brilliant, and actually seem to get me. I learn something fascinating every time I see them. But what really basted this here butterball was my cousin's wife's sister. Good gravy, as it were, what a fuckin' knockout! The average jerk would never see it, but I sure did. She takes girl-next-doorism to pinnacles never imagined. Her eyes, hands, voice, and manner were entirely unadorned and all the more fatally seductive as a result. She was almost my height, and had this barely-perceptible tie-off thing on top of her perfect hair (dark, just past the shoulder, with only the slightest wave) that was too adorable for words. A few misaligned teeth, which I happpen to love. She wore plain, faded jeans, and plain blue sneakers with plain white laces. No logos, lights, reflectors, split-level / suction-cup-lookin' soles or any of that shit. They were good old-fashioned KEDS, and she owned those things in every way. She had a killer grin, an honest laugh, and brains galore.

I was already sold, but then I learned she was Italian, and I was officially a goner. (My cousin's wife doesn't look the least bit Italian.) My friends know I've only been this severely smitten twice. The whole scene just ain't a big priority. But this was that exact same, full-blown, bigtime CrippleVille, far beyond my considerable powers of reason. If I were to defend myself against another potential heartbreak, I had to bring in the heavy artillery. It was then that I unveiled the hideous Black Jesus painting I'd found at Goodwill the previous day for three stinkin' bucks. I'd brought it along as a conversation piece, but its mystery enshrouded the entire gathering. You've gotta see this thing. He's got a misplaced ear (which looks like it came off a pig), and is playing an instrument that doesn't exist; something between a balalaika and an accordian, with one string, a full six inches off the fretboard, and he's "bowing" it with what appears to be a scythe. But you wouldn't believe the eyes, no joke. It's framed in glass, but just off-center, revealing itself to be an original, individual work, hand-painted on some cheap cloth. There exists only one of these in the world, and it's mine. Why anyone would part with it, let alone for free, is insane. My new crushette understood completely. We then discussed our mutual loathing for Burl Ives and Richard Simmons, our perverse fascination with Cher and Florence Henderson, and our sheer befuddlement over Rachael Ray. It was clear that those brains galore were going largely untapped and unappreciated down there in Cowtown. She seemed, dare I say, grateful. I thought we had hit it off famously. I even got a nice, squishy hug on the way out.

Turns out she's also got a boyfriend. Thanks for nuthin'.

Turkini

YOU may or may not be grateful for these pics, as I left out some seriously vile and disturbing related stuff. It was a tough call, given my sense of seasonal spirit. Maybe later. The last three drawings below are by the amazing Danny Hellman. 22 more by him here.

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Not a huge fan, but it belongs here. Short and sour: 

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Don't despair just because it's Christmas / Children, they're all so gay at Christmas /
All the children on the street / Hope they get something good to eat / But for me it's not so great / Fuck Christmas!

What minimal airplay Tiny Tim generated with this curiosity was mostly met with wild derision. Tiny just thought he was being topical at the time (seriously).

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We'll end on a light note. I'm no fan of boob jobs, but this gal's pretty funny.

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