I love it when I suddenly find myself really excited by a record I've owned for a long time.
Tonight I was copying some of those "May" cassettes that I am supposed to send y'all, and I put on the Victoria Spivey CD with the song I that I'd put on the tape.
I've been trying to make out all the words to the song.
After listening more closely to the words I realized that her lyrics were more intricate than a lot of other similar music that I listen to. I tried to find the lyrics to the song "Evil Hearted Me", online. I can't find them but a few of her other songs are on here.
I don't know if reading them is that impressive. Maybe they impress me because I have heard them in her nasal voice. She sometimes uses really horrible forced rhymes. That's one of my pet peeves for song lyrics. I really like the song "Downhill Pull" The song "How Do You Do It That Way?" makes me laugh, and I like all the internal rhyming. It was recorded some time around 1929:
Have you ever had a feeling that someone would come out leadin' you?
If you had it's not so bad unless you found that it is all untrue
Take a good girl to keep her man, some can't do it, others can
I'm no chump but I would jump if I could find someone that's not unlike me too
Oh when the river runs, flowers are bloomin' in May
And if you get good business, how do you do it that way?
Streetwalkin' women, they are happy and gay
But I'm never happy, how do you get that way?
I want a man to be near, because he bring good care
But the men don't like me, they don't seem to care
Now they can come and go, to and fro every day
But I can't make 'em like me, how do you do it that way?
Now if you want somethin' good, you mustn't knock on wood
Just get a good man to look up under your hood
And when the rooster and the hen go to the barn to play
Oh the hen has chickens, how do they do it that way?
"Down Hill Pull" lyrics are kind of better, in a different way:
"Hmmmmm.... Aah, got a down hill pull and I ain't gettin' you no more
There's an undercurrent somewhere, and I can't put my foot on land
Undercurrent somewhere, can't put my foot on land
I don't seem to nowhere no matter how hard I plan
There's a change in the ocean, baby there's a change in me
There's a change in the ocean, baby there's a change in me
I'm gonna find solid ground, you'll travel on to the deep blue sea
Oooh... done laid my love down for you
Mmm... laid my love down for you
The middle o' the time I do anything you told me to do
Got a down hill pull, and I ain't gettin' you no more
Got a down hill pull, and I ain't gettin' you no more
Can find a man to give my money most anyplace I go
Oooh... done dropped my love for you
Mmm... dropped my love for you
Ain't got you on my mind, any man I find will do."
Lately I've felt like my life has had all the stability of a sugared up obese child on a sit-n-spin. My well being has refused to stop darting willy-nilly for at least the past month. Trying to put together the pieces of this disjointed puzzle have proved beyond impossible. But I can at least do two things: explore examples, and formulate connections.
Let us start with the example. For damn near the past year I have desperately needed shelves. After a manic fit of room-re-organization last winter, every book, cd, dvd, and nick-knack has become a refugee to my floor. Now in defense of my typical demeanor, by and large the reason I let it go for at least the first six-months was a calculated mixture of lethargy and procrastination (you know, the bill paying aspect my person). But I could only use these tactics for so long...........and still have a yard sale in the corner of my quarters. So I began to look around. The earth-defending, youthfull posi-punk took the lead, and the hunt was on for "ethical" shelving. I was determined to find a bookshelf made by a directly fundable, indigenous peoples, who didn't use wood, but some sort of environmentally-friendly wood alternative.......that was not built in a sweat-shop........or tested on animals. To my shock and suprise, no such shelving existed. Like a rubix-cube with pieces missing, there was no right combination.
Suddenly, this wide eyed young lad on a bike felt a long thin finger tap him on the shoulder, and he was greeted by an older, jaded man with aesthetic needs. The voice that slid from his this, pale lips hissed,"You like the Bauhaus. You like modern designs inspired by them. So what if you have to find them at places that have crushed the original ideals behind those pieces. You need this, and at your age, you've earned it." Sad to say, in my recent isolation, without an entourage of ever-hopefull nineteen year old college freshmen around me, I was beggining to "act my age." My hand slid across the keyboard, and typed in "Design within reach." I lustily eyed "affordable," sleek, well crafted, minimal, modern designed furniture. The kind that I wanted in my house. I am not a freshmen in college, and I no longer wish my room to communicate this image.
I debated for a week about my dilemma, and then dropped it altogether as a cowards escape. However, this would not make my belongings walk quietly away in defeat. Another month goes by, and still no shelves. By now I had dipped down the long roller coaster decline of depression. Now the shelf "situation" had taken on super-human importance. I needed shelves, but agonized over the ethical details. This went against everything I purported to believe in. I knew that buying these shelves would only bring happiness to me, and be counter-productive to the happiness of others. Was "selling out" or growing up? Was I going to become just another ill-demeanored indie rocker with bad hair, and repertoire of useless scene knowledge? How do you not trust anyone over thirty when you nearly represent that demographic? In the end, evil prevailed. I ordered one set of designer, cube-shelving units in black. They are sleek and simple, and I can never listen to "Another Oppressive System" while looing a them. I was a wreck for a week over this, but in less time than that they will be a part of my life. They will organize my living space, tidy up the place,and ever so slightly alter the essence of my being. Truly I am a basket case.
Why all of this depressive neurosis you may ask? Well, let's look at one hypothesis(quickly, and hopefully in one paragraph). Being a post Crohns disease, foot and an half resection-operation, vegan, my body is a bit special. Over the years, I have formulated an otc cocktail to keep me physically on track. Ladies, and gentlemen this is a close as I come to drugs: one multi-vitamin, one B&C complex, one Iron pill, and two digestive pills. Alot I know, but lets inspect this a little closer, shall we. Due to two separate occasions I have noticed what I believe to be a pattern. If I stop regularly taking these, my body rewards me by putting my mental, physical, and emotional well being in a blender. This most recent occurrence, I was letting my bill paying side run the house. So, when I ran out of pills I shrugged it off believing little in their importance. After a few weeks, little dark clouds formed around my aura, then larger black clouds, then a funnel cloud, and finally, as of about a week ago, a tornado ripping through my brain destroying any coherence it came across. I was tired all the time. I could neither concentrate, nor think clearly. And emotionally I rather felt like I wanted to die. While alot of the things I dwell on in state hold their own in real-world importance, I certainly am not going to be able to do anything about them in this state. I finally said "enough" this past week, and grasped at the pill straw in hopes it could do something about my situation. Two days later, sadly it has. I feel as though I returning to whatever normalcy I can. However, now I do harbor a slight depression over this realization. So as you are tucking yourself in tonight with your cookies, soy-milk, and beloved "teddy" (yes, you, I see that stupid bear), close your eyes with peace and think to yourself,"At least I'm not Denman; boy that guy is fucked up!"
(blatantly reposted from my friend's site, jennymiller.com. but there's no such thing as first rights here!)
- a review by the ultimate queen of noise, shauna
last night, my beloved surprised me with a copy of this film, which i have been frothing at the mouth about since i heard about it. i tore the wrapper off with glee, imagining that i was, in fact, tearing an 18-year-old joan jett's sweaty midriff tee from her lithe body... whoa! back to the review.
first, this film has nothing to do with "edgeplay" of any kind. i thought i was gonna see, like, the go-gos porno or something. oh, well. yet this film still delivers on several levels: yep, cherie was doin' both joan and sandy. her review of joan: "she was goood. real good." of sandy: "sandy wasn't half-bad either!" that's IT?? i'd like to point out here that they don't even show the infamous cherie currie bush shot--just her face in that pic! (see me for said bush shot. i keep it under my pillow next to my laminated prayer cards.)
also fantastic is a gracelessly aging lita ford, who sits on a beach chair in jams clutching a cup of what i imagine to be tequila, gruffly recalling girlfights about noxema. i think lita is related to me, as she acts exactly like my aunt carolyn at a ballgame. joan, however, is nowhere to be seen except in japanese concert footage (i guess she's too busy doin' le tigre), but even those few glimpses made me want jump up and down on the furniture screaming about how i don't give a damn 'bout my bad reputation. she declined to be part of the film, and also has a stranglehold on the rights to all the songs, so there's a lot of suzie quatro, but no runaways songs. doh.
also, the ladies all seem to hate one another to this day, which is sad. the interviews are all conducted in different settings, and they never appear together. there is lots of crying. at one point lita laughs at a band member's post-abortion suicide attempt. we learn, too (in case we didn't know already), that svengali kim fowley is a pig-fucker. a genius, but an abusive slimeball.
all in all, the film was sort of depressing, in that i always imagined the runaways as a band of feminist superheroes, but they were really just scared teenaged girls who got taken advantage of and turned against one another. but good god damn did they fill out some silver running shorts!
Last night I dreamt I was back in high school playing water polo with cake-like pieces of hash browns. Way more challenging than regular water polo because obviously you can't get the hash browns wet.
Let's start with the ladies. I will punch you in the titty. Both if you're ornery. I'm spoiling for some fisticuffs and a vagina will not exempt you from my indiscriminate wrath.
