Thursday, November 17, 2005

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Let Me Steal This Moment From You Now

Remarkably, Kate Bush just released a new album. I am fast to admit, I have been a fan since I was 16. The first time I ever smoked pot, on a random mid-winter night, her Hounds of Love album was playing on the tape deck in my girlfriend's car. In keeping with the FM DJ stylings I have been tied to here of late, here is "Running Up That Hill":

It doesn't hurt me.
Do you want to feel how it feels?
Do you want to know that it doesn't hurt me?
Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making?
You, it's you and me.

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could, oh...

You don't want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware I'm tearing you asunder.
Ooh, there is thunder in our hearts.

Is there so much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?
You, it's you and me.
It's you and me won't be unhappy.

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building,
Say, if I only could, oh...

It's you and me,
It's you and me won't be unhappy.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon darling,
Let me steal this moment from you now.
C'mon, angel, c'mon, c'mon, darling,
Let's exchange the experience, oh..."

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
With no problems.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Friday, November 11, 2005


From, you know where, too long ago:

I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
Of nothing in particular

Thursday, November 10, 2005

I Say Nothing

From The Voice of the Beehive's "Let It Bee":
I heard a girl one day -
She had these long tight legs
She said "i get it every night,
He calls me everyday"
He'll leave you back and blue -
He'll rip you right in two
Then wake up in the morning and say,
"Who the hell are you?"

And then she turned to me and said
"We know you,
Tell us some secrets honey
We won't say a word"

But I say nothing, I talk to no-one
I know what i believe,
Don't need to wear it on my sleeve
I talk to no-one, I will say nothing
If we come and go alone
Why do they need to know ?

The boy who's always mad
Just alone and sad
He holds my hand so tightly he says "go away I'm bad
I'll leave you black and blue
I'll rip you right in two,
But it is just because I do not know
How to be true.
That's why I sometimes stand alone at parties
That's why I drink so I'll be who they think I am"

But don't say nothing,
Don't talk to no-one
I'm not what they believe
And if they find out they will leave
Don't talk to no-one just don't say nothing
If we come and go alone why to they need to know

Arcades - all those endless days
Of all those sci-fi slaves
The noise was just a drag until you said
"Close your eyes and listen."
'Cause it's singing for you
It's swinging just for you
It's screaming just for you

There is a place somewhere
Sometimes you'll find me there
If i am alone I will be sitting on the stairs
I'll be good as new, of one of the lonely few
Who's laughing at the joke
And as I leave i laugh for you

And I will say nothing...

Wednesday, November 09, 2005


From Roxy Music's "Avalon":
I could feel at the time
There was no way of knowing
Fallen leaves in the night
Who can say where they´re blowing
As free as the wind
And hopefully learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning
More than this - there is nothing
More than this - tell me one thing
More than this - there is nothing
It was fun for a while
There was no way of knowing
Like dream in the night
Who can say where we´re going
No care in the world
Maybe i´m learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning
More than this - there is nothing
More than this - tell me one thing
More than this - there is nothing

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

The Public Gets What the Public Wants (Or, Easy Song Lyric Week Entry 2)

So, this is the second of seven easy song lyric entries. Here are the lyrics to The Jam's always-good-to-hear "Going Underground":

Some people might say my life is in a rut,
But I’m quite happy with what I got
People might say that I should strive for more,
But I’m so happy I can’t see the point.
Something's happening here today
A show of strength with your boy’s brigade and,
I’m so happy and you’re so kind
You want more money - of course I don’t mind
To buy nuclear textbooks for atomic crimes

And the public gets what the public wants
But I want nothing this society’s got -
I’m going underground, (going underground)
Well the brass bands play and feet start to pound
Going underground, (going underground)
Well let the boys all sing and the boys all shout for tomorrow

Some people might get some pleasure out of hate
Me, I’ve enough already on my plate
People might need some tension to relax
[me? ] I’m too busy dodging between the flak

What you see is what you get
You’ve made your bed, you better lie in it
You choose your leaders and place your trust
As their lies wash you down and their promises rust
You’ll see kidney machines replaced by rockets and guns

And the public wants what the public gets
But I don’t get what this society wants
I’m going underground, (going underground)
Well the brass bands play and feet start to pound
Going underground, (going underground)
[so] let the boys all sing and the boys all shout for tomorrow

We talk and talk until my head explodes
I turn on the news and my body froze
The braying sheep on my tv screen
Make this boy shout, make this boy scream

Going underground, I’m going underground

Monday, November 07, 2005

Then Your Life Becomes a Travelogue

Today is Joni Mitchell's 62nd birthday. In her honor, here are the lyrics to one of her best songs, from the album Hejira, "Ameila":

I was driving across the burning desert
When I spotted six jet planes
Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain
It was the hexagram of the heavens
it was the strings of my guitar
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets through to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture-post-card-charms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

People will tell you where they've gone
They'll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
Where some have found their paradise
Others just come to harm
Oh Amelia, it was just a false alarm

I wish that he was here tonight
It's so hard to obey
His sad request of me to kindly stay away
So this is how I hide the hurt
As the road leads cursed and charmed
I tell Amelia, it was just a false alarm

A ghost of aviation
She was swallowed by the sky
Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly
Like Icarus ascending
On beautiful foolish arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

Maybe I've never really loved
I guess that is the truth
I've spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude
And looking down on everything
I crashed into his arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

I pulled into the Cactus Tree Motel
To shower off the dust
And I slept on the strange pillows of my wanderlust
I dreamed of 747s
Over geometric farms
Dreams, Amelia, dreams and false alarms

©1976, Joni Mitchell

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Palace Walls

His face is dominated by his lips.
Well-formed and supple, softer than his skin,
They tease me–drawing me into his house–
His palace buried deep in heavy snow.
His hair, soft-golden, falls around in curls.
I call him “C.”; he says that he is bored.

We sit and chatter at ourselves, still bored
Was our verdict (my only thought–his lips).
He shakes his head and throws around those curls
Of darkened light (I seek to feel his skin).
He laughs at me and turns instead to snow
Falling outside his window. Now the house

Is vacant while he sighs because the house
Is all he yearns to be (so now, I’m bored).
He reaches toward me, throwing his hand through snow
That is now there. He turns to me–(his lips
Are quivering) and falls roughly on my skin.
Suddenly, I’m caught within his curls.

Still sighing, he throws back his mass of curls.
And says too softly how he loves his house.
My fevered hand rests damply on his skin;
His mouth to me, he whispers, “I am bored.”
I raise his head to mine and skim those lips–
Responding to my touch, he mouths, “The snow....”

Caught up in him, I was wet as if in snow.
He covers me so deftly with his curls.
Now on the floor, we roll (he seeks my lips).
We tumble fast and slow throughout his house
We dare not stop for fear of being bored.
The lust between us lava through our skin.

We stop for breath and cannot escape our skin.
The world outside swims deep within damp snow.
We laugh and wonder how we were once bored.
We hold each other well–his fragrant curls
Envelop me as we lie here. His house
Will never be a home. (I seek his lips.)

But he seems bored. I touch his waxen skin.
His lips are cold–his hair has lost its curls.
He feels like snow. I know. He is his house.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Paging Doctor Violet Newstead

Today is my best friend/ex-boyfriend/ex-wife/most trusted confidant/partner in crime Robert's birthday. I have known Rob for the past fifteen years of my life; seven of which we spent as lovers. it is hard to say what my life would be like without him. What he has added to my life, what he has given me, how he has challenged me are all invaluable and inseparable parts of the person I am today.

Rob is the most intelligent man I have ever known - and will ever know. He is also compassionate, bitchy-in-the-best-way, better read than anyone and downright hilarious. There is always something madcap brewing beneath the surface with Rob. I always liken him to Lily Tomlin in 9 to 5, trying to stay cool while attempting to steal a corpse from a hospital, impersonating a Doctor.

Unlike Ms. Violet Newstead, the character Lily Tomlin plays, Rob is a bonafide doctor, which I have been known to make many a joke about at his expense. Rob's career tends to throw the unknowing a loop something like this:

CONTESTANT: What does Rob do again?
ME: He is an Epidemiologist.
CONTESTANT: He's a skin doctor?
ME: No.
CONTESTANT (growing weary): Oh...

See, Rob is so styley, he is often mistaken for a fashion stylist.

Or, as I once put it, he is:

"Corporate Scientist By Day. East Village Slut Trash By Night."

I have said it before and I will say it forever and ever again: You will always be my Diane Keaton.

Happy Birthday! - T

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

It's (T)Ricky To Rock a Rhyme

I keep forgetting to plug my last future ex-boyfriend's album. Well, maybe forget is kind of an overstatement. I don't really even know what the album is titled, so it's hard to pretend to not want to plug something you don't really know about. I do know that this new "urban" single is sort of blandly whatever. Not as bland as that new Gwen Stefani song, which makes my stomach churn like a faulty carborator when I hear it. She really needs to keep Eve in the mix when she does "urban". Remember when we used to get confused for each other in public and highlight each other's bangs? Oh, the times-or-needs-of-the-public have changed, haven't they? The new tats are cute, I suppose, Darling-Rhymes-With-Nikki.

Since he stopped singing in Spanish and stopped returning my calls and stopped being a non-threatening sexy Buddhist, I haven't been able to pay his work any kind of attention. I suppose I should be more supportive of the careers of fictional future ex-boyfriends and all. I guess I am just as poor of a fictional future ex-boyfriend as he is. I am indeed sorry, Mr. Our-Fake-Palimony-Agreement-Prevents-Me-From-Stating-Your-Name. I will try to do better, livin' la vida whatevera.

Simple Pleasures

Is it better to be
Sky high in a tree
Or down on the ground
In an anthill?

Is it easy to see
Alone - up in that tree
How the ants carry on
Making mountains?

Moving backwards and forth
Dragging dirt to the north
As something now large
Looms out of nothing.

A group now has formed
Small army - large swarm
From the hill they have made
Of this nothing.

Put forth with purpose
Together, but useless,
As they scurry for crumbs
And some meaning.