In Times Square, it’s
twenty minutes
past midnight,
there’s a broken champagne
bottle at our feet,
slipped loose
from a pal’s
whoops.
Garbage floats by like kids
in a Halloween parade. Cops
clip-clop past on horseback, keeping
elevated sight lines secure.
And that’s about it.
The crowd’s gone.
Seeped through grating
down to the rumble.
Cold streets left to
we scattered few
post-apocalyptic
topsiders.
This; And also that
Too
He ate
too many oysters
there’s a barbecued
pearl
forming
somewhere.
if “the last thing
if “the last thing
I want
to do
is
upset you”
does
that mean
“I want to
upset you,
after
I’m done with
all my other
projects?”
Smoke Alarm
Smoke alarm
went off
last night
for no reason.
Hoping I didn’t die
and don’t know it.
Apologies
if next time you see me
I’m a scary ghost.
Bad words
Meatballs (the movie) caused me to explain slurs to my kids the other day. Looking for a less-than-awful example, I stumbled on this lost memory:
As noted else-blog, I lived in Holland for a stretch while growing up. There I was, getting taller, all surrounded by Dutch stuff.
The American and Dutch kids went (mostly) to different schools, but we lived next door to each other, listening to our older brothers’ copies of “Sheer Heart Attack” by Queen.
Sometimes we played together. For those times when we fought, we created our own slurs. “Dutchies!” we’d call the Dutch kids. Which sounds to me now like a matched-set of collectable mob bosses. Or were we really just saying “Dutch cheese”? That would be an odd thing to call someone, even in anger.
“Cray-shee Amerikahnsies!” they’d call us. And OK — that was fair. We were crazy. Crazy about rock n roll!
Even as we launched our half-hearted catapaults, we couldn’t take it too seriously. How angry could you be listening to a band whose lead guitarist had hair what looked like this?
Brian May kept the peace.
Whole Foods
Whole Foods feels like Disneyland
today. I’m at the “Deli” ride. No one curses.
The cheese is free. The clerks have dressed up
like cauliflower and they’re giving out
organic autographs.
“Shaved My Beard” — the movie
A while back, I wrote a little thang called “Shaved My Beard”. And, you know, there was a lot of hullabaloo. I remember, I got a letter from Shaquille O’Neil about it, which really surprised me. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the time.
Shaq hasn’t written in a while. So this weekend, with help from Veronica Vortex, iMovie, and a Flip cam, I revisited that piece, moving picture stylee. Herewith:
Shaved My Beard from Cecil Vortex on Vimeo.
The six stages of music over-play
1. First few listens: My heart starts to race. This sounds nice. This sounds really nice…. Passes through quickly to…
2. Deep dive: Can last one month or four. This sound is all my brain wants to receive. Can I play it again? Again? Again? Again. Again. Joy.
3. Sudden burn out: Recoiling. I will not listen to this today. I will, um, listen to something else.
4. Return to obsession: Tentative. It’s been a little while. I can put it back in rotation now. I think. Still sounds great but… something’s not quite right.
5. Time apart: Could be a year. I need my space. We both need our space. I’m talking to you, 1940s Frank Sinatra.
6. The rest of my life: Sounds good again, sure. I mean, it’s great music. But there’s a sadness now too when I play that batch of tunes. The sparkle has evaporated. Or did the cartilage disappear? If only I’d had a little more self-control back in Step 2….