“Has it got you down then, Sugar Baby?”
“Have I got a story for you!”
“That’s where it all began…”
“Or was it here? Yes, here.”
“When the purple rays ceased surrounding you, it turned out you felt unwelcome on our planet”
“Dinner was a fair game. You left The Lot to play ‘sparkle above the jump rope.’ Really, our planet LIKED you. You should at least know that, dear.”
“Come back soon. ‘Monday Storytime Hour’ they call it.”
To return again but to step away.
Finding not a sequel but your old self in a new town.
Time to run away.
It can be cured again.
Mix the puzzle pieces and it might be write again.
To be unfinished and so to dream.
I read 100 pages I wish to read again.
But how I fear the drift.
May I slip between the cracks?
Of some longed for instant. Other outcomes.
To skate beside King’s usual flex.
Then discover.
Old town. New town.
Danny Torrance’s references. The wine purchase in the morning.
Tony waving in the turret window.
Is there another hallway down a burned manuscript page?
But it isn’t over.
As I said: 100 pages deep.
Beware what he guards, or what he has forever guarded; for beneath those crackling snares and blurred sticks, you might catch the ghost of Max Roach or the birth of psychedelia. The tyme has come to revisit those Cream records as loudly as possible–to redial and recall that sparkling fusion in the shadow of a glare; now let the screaming axe ride the horizon of his pounding as the bass pedals back, slipping from the sweet sweat of fear.
E.A.P.: Where are we?
H.P.L.: Back where we began….
S.K.: Anyone mind if I put “Hot Jet Chrome” by The Cars on the turntable?
E.A.P. & H.P.L.: Suit yourself!
Impressions Impressions First Impressions Always to Make You Bluish:
1. A lone kid’s voice hovers in some psychedelic oasis or tangerine dream of a wonderland just before the alien spacecraft is commandeered and its glammed-out pilot decides IT’S A FINE TIME TO DIE.
2. Whip that finger around, shall we? No, we simply SHANT! Downer, boogie keyboards. Ever want to shake uglies with a haunted house of endless fear?
3. Badasssss drums make the sound go shake in the autumn of a breathing being (wide as a trampoline but 43x as evil) beneath a pile of leaves. Bees are growing angry and the wasps are sick of being preserved in cubes of antifreeze; it’s time they had their way…before the scarecrow nods and the hatchet falls.
4. Almost as if the nails were rising by themselves from the structure housing the ladybug, large as a watermelon, who has been controlling us of late; she shivers because of the slivers, but she has her appetites…and that is what is wading…left far behind, down in the murk of a drumbeat trapped inside a synthesizer.
5. Having not listened to the album whatsoever before this instant (other than a terribly shoddy phone recording of “Alien Days”), I feel a bit alarmed at reaching this track (“Your Life is A Lie”) as this is (and I’m probably (hopefully) mistaken) the debut single. Could be what the gentlemen with the wandering wig at the local record store used to call “a grower.” Yeah, but the second Stone Roses album NEVER GREW.
6. Then, as entangle with a snake yet again, the sand pit relaxes and massages us…giving us our chocolate figurines of glam boys and gals with glowing green goo just boiling right up and over their tongues and hanging and swayin’ from their chins.
7. Okay. Boo. Yes. This one is definitely grooven’. Lost in the mix. He. Him. You don’t want to be found? I had trouble sleeping last night too (I did (honestly) and this could be tainting my entire perception of the album, so please virtually rip this synthetic and abstracted page into cyber-chip-projected pieces to blow away in the wilds and prairies of the internet deserts).
8. Very Nico. Ah, and now we’re encountering basically the only contemporary band capable of producing both smash hits and utterly off-the-wall experimentation (oh yes, there’s also that mastercraft of a hovering personality: Ariel Pinky; and we shant forget about him…we just shant!). Wow, and it actually evolves into quite a powerful and emotional hook. Who does this? MGMT…and nobody else would ever even dare!
9. Definitely a reference to Lady Chatterley’s Lover. And this sounds like a wacky but much catchier single than the one about lives being lies, although that one could expand and reshape itself into a more profound experience while the simplicity of this ditty could begin to splinter and divide an evil influence in a storm of gangrenous amongst the toes and toads.
10. It bangs some severe hammers as the ghosts escape, but how I miss steel drums and tragic island tales amidst congratulatory slaps on the back, roses in hand and switchblades visible beneath the belts.
So, in the end, did I “like” it? Ummmmm…Ok!!!!!!! WAY TOO BORED by that question. Bye.
It makes me sad that I will probably never read Night Film again. Never be wrapped up in its intricate mystery, coiled within its specific flavor of suspicious magic and the living/throbbing rumors spider-webbing outward from a genius artist of the dark’s glorious offspring: in this case, fictitious films. But I will not reveal any aspect of its deftly executed plot, filled with surprises until the very last sentence. I may as well admit that I have started many thrillers during my life but finished few. Why? The mystery usually withers too early on, becomes too convoluted, or the hero is imbued with unrealistic buoyancy and shackled to wisecracking-but-tiresomely-clever dialogue while strapped with an increasingly redundant dilemma/dangerous foes until the suspense predictably ratchets to a boiling point of a ready-to-pop climax, leaving this reader to sigh in apathy at its lack of lurid shocks and basic invisibility. But this novel lives on until its very end, blowing smoke at the mind’s conclusions while confuscating our very perception as to what it means to take part in a living, breathing work of art as it unfolds and generates meaning. So maybe I shouldn’t be so sad; maybe I can one day read this magnificent diamond-cut tomb once again and be equally as transfixed and romanced; to make it be like a Madeleine cookie wherein I will someday retrieve who I once was these last few weeks: becoming one of those timeless works that, for a moment, opened a world of infinite possibility—because: we will always be in need of stories to shape our present and throw us back to what has passed—and is still passing—somewhere close.
Because the new MGMT record is due out yesterday or today, I decided to offer a symposium on the new song/video by Miley Cyrus entitled “Wrecking Ball.”
A lone tear lingers on a splotchy cheek, but the irreal ¼ aquamarine, ¼ sapphire,¼ tourmaline and ¼ blue topaz of her dominating and accusatory eyes tell of a different but equally as tawdry tale as The Airbrushing Sisters, only this time it’s called Super Alien Enhancement: The Genesis of Behind What Made Tiger Woods See Holes and Ones Even on Cloudy Days When One’s Putter Was Simply Too Mucked To Put.
And the controversy…why? At 20 years old, the accusations against fans of the video for “the wrong reasons” have been made by the usual hecklers who appear rather confused about the trajectory of life; i.e. yes, even Mouseketeers grow up.
Onto the song…nevermind, somebody else has probably already got that one covered. I will admit that the lyrics are laughably bad, although the melody is incredibly memorable and the performance is undeniably raw and heartfelt.
What I find strange about this video/phenomenon/starlet is the utter lack of innuendo OR suggestive imagery; so, in other words, yes, while Cyrus does show a good deal of skin, the crumbling walls and metallic color scheme hardly supply the ideal atmosphere for a fantasy scenario—but, and I am tell mulling over this question myself (to be honest): does the bland/industrial/utilitarian backdrop somehow bring us closer to Hollywood royalty by supplying us the illusion that Miley Cyrus also exists in a world where ugly construction sites are the true backdrop to the most heartbreaking (wrecking balls) devastations (wrecking balls) in our lives?
I leave this question to you before the song is completely wrecking-balled by malls and gas stations—at which point it will be entirely worthless to ever consider asking again.
…it was told by a sparrow to a minotaur to a mosquito to a bear to a branch to some dew to a rogue to a net to a tattered cloak on a stool beside a brick on a table at a head lice wedding party beside a dolphin where a scarecrow made the hedge grow….
MGMT’s new s/t album will be released in just a few days, but can’t you just already hear the impish critters at their sticky keyboards debasing and abusing what will surely be yet another masterwork of psychedelic art? And why? Why will this happen?
Sirs, sons, daughters, and revolutionaries, we live in an information age where…
…to be quite blunt: why do you accuse when to confuse can cause such everlasting relaxation.
exhibit b.
and here the other boys are, no longer teeny cute, but among, as Jarvis Cocker once sung, “the aged.”
so, why did everyone turn very angry rotten eggs at a terribly unfomfortable birthday party at which you had the distinct impression you were not invited and were slowly being pushed away…but not by a person…by a ghost!…by a ghost!….
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah: nowhere.
As I continue to listen to Never Neverland by The Pink Fairies and dream about the new MGMT album, I will always know deep, deep, deep within the serpent coils of my heart, that yes…. [conclusion irrelevant]
Ever show up to work and realize YOUR CHAIR WAS MISSING A WHEEL? Well, it happened to me today friends.
Okay, well, let me clarify things a bit here: I’d noticed the wheel missing since day one. After a recent upgrade to a slightly better desk from the previous year, I sat on my new chair which…then proceeded to wobble…unbecomingly, I might add!
Looking under the seat of the chair revealed precisely what I’d feared: a wheel was missing.
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