Dorkness at Noon

It was really great to see changeng tonight, as he headed back home from playing down in Laguna. Between him and me and Jared and Deanna and Dan we managed to invent a urine-powered car, perfectly plan Stuart’s takeover of all world media, and have just a little bit too much caffeine. Or at least I did. Blink, blink.

I had a nice talk with Movie Guy Dan about old punk rock days and was surprised to hear about some people who should be dead, but somehow aren’t: Texacala Jones, Paul Cutler from Vox Pop/45 Grave/Dream Syndicate, Rick Wilder from the Mau Maus.

I met Dorothy, who is Deanna’s friend and is nice and smart and stunning and apparently a champeen pool player.

I bought tomatoes and olive oil. There were various millionaires in the market buying cookies and whisky. As I drove home I thought about the idle rich, as I have been a lot lately. I see them when I go to the local ritzy mall to get my computer fixed, and they’re just kind of hanging out buying stuff on weekend afternoons, looking a little dazed in their gigantic $500 athletic shoes and gigantic $80,000 wondertrucks. I wonder what it’s like to have nothing at all that moves you, and no reason otherwise to move? It seems like a kind of Hell.

7 thoughts on “Dorkness at Noon

  1. My trip this summer, in which I saw and met a lot of people living in double-wides and other manufactured housing, seems to have adjusted my sense of the world a little bit. Many Bostonians now seem to me a bit like your “idle rich”. They may not actually be idle— often they’re rushing somewhere that seems vital, most often to work or home, frequently wearing an iPod. They live such obviously comfortable lives that I’m not sure they’ve ever considered the life one lives in those small towns, or for that matter on the other side of the city, in the neighborhoods I’ve always been warned not to live in.

  2. This is hell, this is hell
    I am sorry to tell you
    It never gets better or worse
    But you get used to it after a spell
    For heaven is hell in reverse
    The bruiser spun a hula hoop
    As all the barmen preen and pout
    The neon “i” of nightclub flickers on and off
    And finally blew out
    The irritating jingle
    Of the belly-dancing phony Turkish girls
    The eerie glare of ultra violet
    On perfect dental work
    CHORUS
    The failed Don Juan in the big bow-tie
    Is very sorry that he spoke
    For he’s mislaid his punch line
    More than halfway through a very tasteless joke
    The freulein caught him peeking down her gown
    He’s yelling in her ear
    And all at once the music stopped
    As he was intimately bellowing “My dear . . .”
    CHORUS
    The shirt you wore with courage
    And the violent nylon suit
    Reappear upon your back
    And undermine the polished line you try to shoot
    It’s not the torment of the flames
    That finally see your flesh corrupted
    It’s the small humiliations that your memory piles up
    This is hell, this is hell, this is hell.
    “My Favourite Things” are playing
    Again and again
    But it’s by Julie Andrews
    And not by John Coltrane
    Endless balmy breezes and perfect sunsets framed
    Vintage wine for breakfast
    And naked starlets floating in Champagne
    All the passions of your youth
    Are tranquillized and tamed
    You may think it looks familiar
    Though you may know it by another name
    CHORUS
    This is hell, this is hell.
    — Elvis Costello, Brutal Youth, just before the fall.

    1. Yes, indeed, and
      While Nat King Cole sings Welcome To My World
      You request some song you hate you sentimental fool
      And it’s the force of habit
      If it moves then you fuck it
      If it doesn’t move you stab it
      And I thought I heard The Working Man’s Blues
      He went out to work that night and wasted his breath
      Outside there was a public execution
      Inside he died a thousand deaths
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they put him in a suit of lights
      In the perforated first editions
      Where they advocate the hangman’s noose
      Then tell the sorry tale of the spent Princess
      Her uncouth escort looking down her dress
      Anyway they say that she wears the trousers
      And learnt everything that she does
      And doesn’t know if she should tell him yes
      Or let him go
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they put him in a suit of lights
      Well it’s a dog’s life in a rope leash or a diamond collar
      It’s enough to make you think right now
      But you don’t bother
      For goodness sake as you cry and shake
      Let’s keep you face down in the dirt where you belong
      And think of all the pleasure that it brings
      Though you know that it’s wrong
      And there’s still life in your body
      But most of it’s leaving
      Can’t you give us all a break
      Can’t you stop breathing
      And I thought I heard The Working Man’s Blues
      I went to work that night and wasted my breath
      Outside they’re painting tar on somebody
      It’s the closest to a work of art that they will ever be
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they pulled him out of the cold cold ground
      And they put him in a suit of lights
      And they put him in a suit of lights
      — Elvis Costello, “Suit of Lights”, from King of America, at his height.

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