Thursday, June 26, 2008

Kewpie dolls and urine stalls will be laughed at the way you're laughed at now

Note to our California friends: the robins are from the White Lodge, the owls are from the Black Lodge, BOB travels by electricity. It explains all the weird slow-mo shots of ceiling fans and random light flashes when things get creepy and surreal. Just a theory, but a good one, I think. I have a lot...of theories. I spent more than three months in 1990/91 thinking Deputy Andy was the killer! Following The Giant's clues might lead you to that conclusion.

Speaking of the Black Lodge, who else is livin' in one? The Man From Another Place dances out from under my couch. Boy oh boy, summer seems to have gotten off to a hard start around here. Flux, move-outs, holy rollers, day in day out like Ian Curtis sez, too much fast food, not enough sunshine, shoes getting dirty, pants getting holes, no decent parties, people are getting married in droves, the White Sox are tanking, the "John Adams" mini-series was kind of rotten, I still hate coffee, LOST is off the air...I got more litany than the Pope.

That's why I downloaded the Let It Be re-issue a few weeks back and play it constantly, even more than I did when I bought it as a know-nothin' Blackburn College freshman who had just gotten laid (and summarily quite ruthlessly dumped) for the first time. Even if the entire damned record wasn't a perfect construct of adol-leased life doom and post-teen twaddle and middle-20's ennui and deepening-into-thirties WHAT THE FUCK it would still put a corncob pipe sized lump in your throat if you, say, happened, for the first time, to run into it on the street corner one day as you were blowing off some scheme or bumped into it when you went out on your windowsill to smoke at, like, 5 in the AM when the dawns early light smacks of an interrogation room. It would stare you in the face and embrace your failures and the revoked lease on life you are using as toilet paper and say, hey! HEY! Gary's got a boner! And you would laugh and say "he does indeed! I forgive everyone! Boners!"

And then you might try to figure out how exactly Westerberg was able to channel Carl Fisher from Blitz AND Billy Joel, and you would fail and keep listening and realize failure is engraved on the turd-encrusted esplanade walked by all the faithful and faithless alike, and that the subtle empathy of "Androgynous", which sounded like a put-down to you for years was actually far from it and in fact a kind of very powerful medicine, cure/armor that kind of carries you for weeks in it's wake, in a surprising manner, and you want to tell people (friends, acquaintances, parents, government officials, minor and major deities) here is a song so catchy and sure and it's not saying "don't touch my jewelry" or "I don't love you any more" or "I'm gonna come on your face" or "your enemies deserve the worst your rage can fathom" or "Hold on while I count my amazingly huge stacks of money and BTW feel free to admire the prestige/honor/self-satisfaction/microwave burritos it buys me"...or something like that. Records are so great! I forgive everyone!


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