Can't make up my fuckin' mind!

One calendar is the norm. I decided to allow myself two (thinking optimistically: one for the home, one for the office). And now I can't delete one of these three!

 

Old Hollywood: Because I feel I'll be going to LA in 2014. And I like especially the old "Hollywoodland" sign from 1923 and the Hollywood Bowl silhouette from 1926. And the '40s street shots are kinda cool, though I'm not that interested in '40s H'wood.

 

NYC in B/W: The view from the Chelsea Hotel, the library lion, the arc of the Central Park trees.

 

NYC in color: The color verve of Times Square and the above-shot of the skyline.

 

I sat there for 45 minutes trying to pick two. And I could not! (Though, upon just reading my above descriptions, I'd probably delete the NYC color --- but Times Square! and the pretty approach to the Battery... and snowy Central Park...)

 

Yeah, yeah. Who the fuck cares. What calendar I pick does not determine my future... But I so want to FEEL my two 2014 calendars! ;p

 

 

Good Times Coming / Feel the Sun

I loved this song from the second I heard it; from the 1986 McCartney "Press to Play" album, which I bought as an actual album when it first came out. (Where is that album, physically, now? I think in a crate at my mom's house.) Every single other song on the album is not so good (!), which I just rediscovered on iTunes; but this one has such a good, happy, hopeful vibe that I've remembered for the past 27 years... Glad to officially add to my repertoire of musical "likes" upon downloading it to my iPod just now.

I especially like the second part, "Feel the Sun," which is segued into at 3:27.

"All the beauty, all the pain
Will it ever be the same again..."

p.s. Though this came out in '86, six years after John Lennon's death, hearing this beautiful song (and, also recently, the whole 1978 "London Town" album) pisses me off when I think of John's ongoing derogatory comments about Paul in the late '70s and in 1980, as in: Paul was busy pumping out kids and pumping out music, that kind of thing. Insinuating that he himself was somehow "deeper" because he'd withdrawn. When in fact, Lennon was having a hard time conceiving either a child or much music, and he was having problems with his marriage. He was dried up. He could have admitted that and didn't have to be a bitch toward the much more naturally fecund Paul about it.

I say that as someone who worshipped Lennon as a teenager -- I discovered the Beatles at 15 in 1980, in the summer before Lennon was shot. After hearing "Rubber Soul" and "Revolver" and "Sgt. Pepper" and the White Album, Lennon was definitely my favorite Beatle because of his musical soulfulness and honesty; and I typed up the words to his solo songs like "Working Class Hero" and "God" and hung them on my high school walls. In my teenaged angst, Paul was dismissively "pleasant"; John was somehow "TRUE"...

Solo, the true measure of each man came out. John's "Plastic Ono Band" in 1970 and "Imagine" in 1971 were intense, as was his 1974 "Walls and Bridges." But they were all about his own neuroses and psychological problems. Initially brave psychologically to sing about said neuroses, but by the time 1980's "Double Fantasy" came out after a 5-year absence, Lennon was clearly tapped out creatively. Apparently, all his intellectual/creative energy had gone into stabilizing his marriage. A huge effort that he blatantly tried to sell to the rock press as being some sort of "artistic dream union." When in fact, I think he was just trying to re-create, re-live his art-college buddy Stu Sutcliffe's leaving the Beatles to be with his artist-girlfriend Astrid in Germany in the early 1960s while the band was in Hamburg. What Sutcliffe did to Lennon (unintentionally), Lennon tried (intentionally) to do to Paul.

Only... the artistic bond between John/Yoko wasn't as organic as the bond between Stu/Astrid. John and Yoko's work never meshed, though he continued to, annoyingly, try to pretend that it did until the very end.

And Paul wasn't nearly as weak psychologically upon being left as Lennon had been in the early '60s. McCartney was, on the surface, more fluid and willing to bend. But he wasn't any less talented or egotistical. And he was much more musically, creatively driven, with a deep, true unpretentiously creative core that I don't think Lennon, too reliant on the image rather than reality of Yoko as his muse, had.

Happiness is...

 

 

... first real cold front comin' this evening and 4 new sweatshirts to choose from! ;p

 

Last year was a depressing non-new-sweatshirt year, alternating between two old standbys (maroon and dark green)... but this year -- Got my burnt-orange Longhorns sweatshirt for Saturdays, my blue Cowboys sweatshirt for Sundays, and my happy red and pink sweatshirts for all the other times. I'm set! :)

Humble

Ha! I've tried it for the past few years and am now officially sick of it.

Here's the thing:

There's nothing wrong with being a secretary. Except for the dumb-speak of fellow secretaries in the office ("Thank yewwww!"). And the condescension of the bosses (until you make it clear to them that you have a Master's in English and can discuss anything with them at or above their level).

There's nothing wrong with taking a bus for transportation. Except for the thugs who yell at the top of their lungs about who they're busy fucking and how they just got their "old lady" pregnant again so she could get more government aid while the thugs are in jail. Except for the state hospital guys up front jacking off in front of everyone. Except for the homeless guys/gals who reek and, like the hookers with their johns, constantly talk "I ain't gonna lie!" nonsense at the top of their lungs.

There's nothing wrong with living in a one-room apartment. Except for the 20-year-old neighbors around you blasting their music or having loud sex or stomping home in your shared hallway at 3am or running a buzz-saw in the adjoining backyard all day.

Hey, if I could be a secretary, take a bus, and live in a one-room apartment -- all in a vacuum -- I'd have no problem with that.

In reality, though: I'm sick of pretending to be humble and that the utter idiocy of the people I've been around for the past 3 years is OK. None of this dumb bullshit has been OK. I've just been too lazy/tired to try to get back out of it. I need to get off my ass.

Paul McCartney's "London Town" (1978)

Paul in Times Square Wednesday!

(John Lennon's birthday, BTW.)

 

I could've been there, man! :)  (Used to work in the Morgan Stanley building, right next to the flashing Hershey store -- could've popped right down for my lunch break!)

 

I found these pix on the UK Daily Mail site -- where commenters were giving Paul (in the photo below WALKING back to his nearby hotel with wife Nancy Shevell) shit for DYING HIS HAIR BROWN! ("You're 71, Paul, be real," etc.)  

 

Paul has a new album out October 15 called "New." And a single with the same name was released a couple of weeks ago. The single was really bad. That said, though: I do have a huge problem with people mocking him for dying his hair! It's not like he's your grand-dad who just retired from the local shop and is now supposed to (in your mind) spend all of his free time babysitting your kids. When Paul McCartney was 25, he looked nothing like, and was doing nothing like, your now-grand-dad. When he was 45, he looked nothing like and was doing nothing like your grand-dad.

 

Same with Paul at 71: If the fucking LEGENDARY ROCK STAR wants to dye his hair brown and then strut across Fifth Avenue after an impromptu concert... Don't hold him to your grand-dad's hair (or any other aesthetic or behavioral) standards, is all I ask.

 

 

 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I've been listening to Paul's 1978 "London Town" album for a month now. Tonight, here's "Don't Let It Bring You Down":

 

 

Planning Ahead



Just bought these for when I retire to my Vermont cabin in 2033.

 

Hermit Crab by Stephen Burt

That shell is pretty, but that shell is too small for me.

Each home is a hideout; each home is a secret; each home
is a getaway under the same hot lamp, a means
to a lateral move at low velocity.

I live in a room in the room
of a boy I barely see.

Sometimes the boy & his talkative friends raise
too-warm hands & try to set me free

& I retreat into myself, hoping they place
me back in my terrarium, & they
do, with disappointed alacrity.

Scatter patterns in sand, adnates, cancellates, gaping
whelk husks, a toy tractor-trailer, cracked
and dinged, beside the spine of a plastic tree,

the helmet-shaped shelter of a shadow cast
by a not-quite-buried wedge of pottery . . .

if I have a body that's wholly my own
then it isn't mine. For a while I was
protected by what I pretended to be.


--The New Yorker, 8/5/13

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Was hem-hawing through a back issue (8/5/13) of the New Yorker today and came across this poem, intending just to glance over just to tell myself I'd read it... The first stanza was inviting. The second stanza bunged me up: especially disliked the way-too-blatant "each home is a secret." Was prepared to yawn and flip on. But... the THIRD STANZA! "I live in a room in the room / of a boy I barely see." Experience through a scrim (either physically or metaphysically) is something seemingly simple, but I don't see it a lot; Ted Hughes does it regularly, which is one reason I like him so. For instance, in his "A Short Film" from "Birthday Letters," the ending:

And how that explosion would hurt
Is not just an idea of horror but a flash of fine sweat
Over the skin-surface, a bracing of nerves
For something that has already happened.

Hughes's overlapping of time is more complicated than what Burt is doing in his simple lines indicating overlapping physical circumstances, but the effect is similar. (The Hughes poem that most exemplifies what I'm thinking of... I can't think of! The speaker is a falconer. I can't find the darn poem anywhere!)

Anyway, Burt's 3rd stanza made me immediately get over the clunky beginning (and the follow-up 4th and 5th stanzas, which are pleasant but not magnificent -- the "disappointed" hands putting him back is interesting; I first read "disappointed" as "disappointing"-- maybe even MORE interesting, the speaker's desires dual that way, both wanting and not wanting to be engaged).

With the "Scatter patterns..." stanza, the poem takes off. I don't normally like show-offy-ness like "adnates" and "cancellates," and I still don't know what these words mean, but it doesn't matter. From here to the stunning "For a while I was protected / by what I pretended to be" end, the poem's taken on a brilliant life of its own.

I've been through a long dry stretch of limbo for the past few months. Not in psychic pain, not scrapping after jobs. (Nothing like the hell of 2 years ago.) But also a pleasure-less stretch. Burt's poem gave me a THRILL for the first time in ages. And shook something up. I read it this morning when I had nothing to do at work. And right after, left for lunch, with this in my head:

Time as tantra, as tribute, as taunt
Mantra in memory of dances not taught

Now, that's nothing but a ditty. But a ditty that's also a portal. (I walked around for the rest of the day thinking about Place and Black Holes and Hourglass and such. Which is way better than thinking about how irritatingly stupid students are...)  AKA: Burt's poem got me briefly back in touch with my soul.

Don Draper on Joan Crawford

 

 

Betty Draper walks into the bedroom, where Don is reading a paperback copy of Rona Jaffee’s The Best of Everything.
DON This is fascinating.
BETTY It’s better than the Hollywood  version.
DON It’s certainly dirtier.
BETTY Joan Crawford is not what she was.  You know, honestly, I found her eyebrows completely unnerving. Like a couple of caterpillars pasted there.  Her standing next to Suzy Parker as if they were the same species.
DON Well, some men like eyebrows, and all men like Joan Crawford.  Salvatore couldn’t stop talking about her.

 

-----------------------------------------

From this mid-century design website:

http://www.beltstl.com/tag/joan-crawford/

 

(This page also includes great photos of the sets of "Best of Everything" and "Torch Song.")

Your Smiling Face

who is she how shall i hold

A Good Day

Saturday was a total depressing bust (nothing but in bed all day, listlessly channel-surfing, wondering why S. hadn't e-mailed me back, worrying about the laundry/dishes/shopping/work I needed to do). But SUNDAY I impressed myself with all the necessities done, plus I liked the day for the small pleasures...

Up at 9:15am. Laundry. (Ye who have washers/dryers within your own dwellings -- this isn't a big deal. For those of us, though, who share communal machines -- in my particular case, only 2 washers and 2 dryers for 50+ people -- it's always a big gamble. Nothing more annoying than packing up all your usually-heavy stuff to go to the laundry-room only to find the machines full; or, worse yet, to find cycles finished and people's stuff just SITTING there. At what point is it kosher to touch their stuff and dump it on the counter??) In my case this morning -- all empty! :)

In between laundry cycles, plucked scraggly eyebrows and got showered and blow-dried (so I wouldn't have to go switch the laundry with wet hair).

Both me and laundry finished by 11:30am. Out the door on the way to the bus-stop for grocery shopping (and to buy new monthly bus pass) by 11:45.

Once out of the grocery store, bus home came within 5 minutes! (For some reason, 90% of the time, I usually end up waiting 20-or-more minutes for the home bus. Not this time! And it was cool today! So nothing melted!)

Once home by 12:45pm, I turned on football for the background and started on dishes that had piled up for 2 weeks, started hand-washing the hand-washables that had piled up for 2 weeks, and started on a freelance assignment (no deadline) that'd been sitting around for 2 weeks.

By 5:45pm: dishes, hand-washing, assignment done. Once assignment e-mailed to boss, walked to nearby Tex-Mex place for my favorite cheap/good puffy-taco plate. At home: Ate, relaxed, bemoaned Cowboys' loss.

7:00pm: Big "Real Housewives of New Jersey" finale (+ post-show Theresa/Joe interview) on in the background while I worked on Joan site and Facebook updates.

10pm: Done with necessities, just goofin' around here.

Thanks, Universe! :)

One more month...

...'til my current temp gig's over. I've held it since late June and the summer's been pleasant and things were A-OK up until we moved to a new building at the start of September. Up 'til that point, I'd been starting to wonder what I would do if they asked me to stay on full-time. As with the last 4-month gig that I had, last October through January, I don't at all like the secretarial work and how you're condescended to as a secretary, but it's easy enough, the people are (for the most part -- see below) pleasant enough, and the real job pays 50% more than I make with the temp pay (plus benefits, etc.).

But here's the thing: At the old building, I had a cube to myself. The three main office ladies were all nice to me, but I was happy to sit away from them. I didn't WANT to know anything about office politics there, etc. I'd announce my presence upon my arrival every morning, ask if there was anything I could do (and, if not, say cheerily "You know where to find me!"). And then I was pretty much left alone, allowed to read, surf, etc.

Now, I'm sharing an office with one of them. She is a super-nice lady, but...  For one thing, she's been there for 30 years. And I see why: She agrees COMPLETELY with anything anyone says to her. Myself included. So I can talk to her and think we're really on the same wavelength. But then I hear her having agreeable conversations about everything with everybody, which makes me start to wonder if she actually has ANY opinions of her own. Which is mildly irritating. I like to know what people really think and why.

Another -- this time literally to my nasal passages -- irritating thing: She smells VERY STRONGLY like she still uses spray deodorant. I remember that heavy, suffocating scent from my own use in junior high/early high school, before solids came on the market. (God, the two choices then were the spray and the roll-on -- the latter always gooey, never drying quickly enough, and so I always used the spray.) I've never been that sensitive to products that people use, but whatever she's coating herself with is almost nauseating to me. (I noticed it every time we'd chat at the old building, but there we were just meeting briefly in the break or elevator area so I could quickly escape the scent.)

This nice lady's agreeableness would never, of course, stop me from wanting to work there, but, seriously, the constant spray-smell would!

And there's one more thing about a different person: There's a 25-year-old Communications person there who's hyper-on-the-make for career advancement. For instance, at one meeting of the larger group, I was sitting with my boss and another office lady. The youngster comes in the room, looks at us and walks by us, calling back, "I can't sit with you because I already KNOW you!" Then she plops herself down at a table with some higher-up execs and starts schmoozing with them. I absolutely HATE that kind of sucking up. We also have a new COO (Chief Operating Officer), and this Communications girl is in the new boss's office EVERY SINGLE DAY. Again, at the old building, the layout was such that I didn't have to witness any of the sucking up. Now, it's right in my face.

Another thing I dislike about the girl: We've now got a very small supply room. At the old place, she too was in a cube, but had room to put all of her conference materials in the large supply area. Now, she's got her own huge office, but still tried to squeeze her stuff into the tiny supply room. I was the one responsible for unpacking everything and arranging the new supply room; I moved all of her boxes into her office, after asking my boss (who is also the girl's boss) if that was OK for space reasons. My boss agreed with me. But when I returned after lunch, all of the girl's materials were mysteriously BACK in the supply room. Again, I moved them back into her office (when she wasn't there). This time, she came marching back to the supply room with her stuff while I was there unpacking: "This doesn't belong in my office." Me: "There's no room in here; I asked D----, and she said to put your stuff in your office. Go ask her." Humph, she humphed out. Long story short: Our boss finally decided just to let her have her way. And now the girl refuses to even look at me.

My revenge: When she sent out a newsletter last week, I printed it out and marked up every single one of the many grammatical/style errors, which I then took to the COO's office, saying "innocently": "I'm a professional copy editor; in the future, if you need me to, I can read any news releases ahead of time to make sure we get rid of all of these kinds of errors before anyone else sees them." HA!!  I mean, I say "Ha!" but in actuality,  I hate this kind of BS gamesmanship. I'll DO it, but I don't want to HAVE to do it.

The good thing for me: I don't NEED this job. My freelance boss (who pays me $27 an hour) just extended my contract through the end of December. That work's sporadic, some weeks 30 hours, some weeks 0, but it puts me in a position of being completely self-sufficient through next January or February whether this secretarial job continues past October or not.

My soul, of course, wants my mind/body to run, run, run away from such an environment, away from both the complacent "lifers" and the shallow career-advancers. Because these kill Soul. Pre-recession 2007, that's exactly what I used to do. It's a new work-world, though, and I can't be anywhere near as picky as I used to be. ("Dammit, Mind," says Soul. Shriveling ever-so-slightly, but still hoping...)

I'm Losing You

 

Just put a Band-Aid on it

And stop the bleeding now

 

 

Joan Fucking Crawford

 

1962, for "Esquire"

It's so cute when Paul gets mad.

1979 "I've Had Enough" from "London Town" and 1986 "Angry" from "Press to Play" (in which we get to hear Paul say "hell"):

Joan Crawford in "Paid," 1930

"Don't fret honey, it all goes down the drain."

 

 

Handy Man

I got my first albums in 1977, when I was 12: The Bay City Rollers' "Dedication" was my very first; their debut album was my second. Shaun Cassidy's debut album was my third. (Shaun Cassidy was also my very first concert. The Rollers would have been my first, but their show in Fort Worth was cancelled due to lack of ticket sales.)

In the meantime, I'd been trying to figure out what else I liked. The Eagles, for instance, I'd been reading about constantly in magazines like "Rolling Stone" and I was very curious about them. Until my family went to a pizza place that had a jukebox; I was given a quarter for a couple of songs, and one that I picked was "Hotel California," just because I'd been reading so much about it. Once it came on, though, my 12-year-old self was horrified: I HATED IT! It was slow and pokey. I'd wasted my precious quarter!

My 12-year-old rock-mag reading, and listening to Kasey Kasem's Top 40 Countdown, also led me to requesting James Taylor's "JT" album as a present for some holiday or other. I'd heard "Handy Man" and "Your Smiling Face" on the radio a million times and loved them both. But once I tried the album as a whole... I HATED IT! It was slow and pokey. I'd wasted my holiday wish!

Still haven't ever learned to like The Eagles, but I just out of nostalgia purchased "JT" on CD for a miniscule $4 or something and listened to it again for the first time in 36 years... More conscious of FLOW this time... It flowed! It spoke thoughtfully about love and loss that I had not been aware of at age 12! I liked it this time! :)

Here's my favorite, "Handy Man":

Ellen Terry Apparel

Looking forward to getting the new "Ellen Terry as Lady MacBeth" T that I just ordered!

The below product, though, available from Zazzle, is a bit odd: an Ellen Terry TRUCKER CAP! (No, I didn't order one of these. Kinda curious as to WHO WOULD!) ;p

Photos by Julia Margaret Cameron



Top is Ellen Terry; middle, unknown; bottom, Alice Liddell (the same "Alice" that Lewis Carroll knew as a girl, this time not fetishized). All shot 1860s-70s.

"HE IS BONAFIED!!!" (aka "Aspirations")

I'm more dismayed at this point than mocking. After years of Facebook and blogs, I shouldn't be surprised at anyone's heartfelt proclamations for public consumption. (I've made a few of my own.)

The above head, with its original spelling, came from the Facebook posting of a favorite cousin I haven't seen in 30 years, in celebration of the fact that she just changed her status on Facebook to "In a Relationship":  

 "I tell you all !! Its been a rough 2 years, but I finally made it !!!" Aside from his being "bonafied," he's also "retired military, served 3 tours in Iraq, and now a teacher!!!"

I'm happy for her being momentarily happy. But then my sense of reality (negativity?) kicks in:

1) Is 2 years really such a "rough" or long time not to be in a relationship? Me, I'm on a 13-year stretch. It's not fun; it's pretty grim, in fact. So when I hear "2 years" described as "rough" I automatically think, "What an amateur!" ;p

2) RE "I tell you all!!": I'm pretty sure that I will one day have both sex and someone to watch movies with again. And when I do... Dear lord, let me right after NOT announce it on Facebook (or on this blog) with the triumphant preface "I tell you all!!" Same with if I ever decide to kill myself, per an old high-school acquaintance's public Facebook fade-out on Demerol a couple of years ago. May I have a greater sense of decorum in my ultimate moments is all I have to say/ask.

3) RE "retired military, served 3 tours in Iraq, and now a teacher!!!":  I know we're supposed to knee-jerkedly "respect" military personnel. I don't. I do singularly respect this particular man for serving 3 tours in Iraq because I understand that it was a physically, psychologically hard task. But "3 tours in Iraq" do not subsequently make for good husband material. (Everything I've read about returning Iraq vets indicates exactly the opposite, in fact, unless you find PTSD reactions and substance abuse comforting.) The being excited about landing a teacher... Apparently my cousin has led a hardscrabble life, and so being with a teacher would definitely seem an unthreatening place of refuge. (Me, I've never heard a teacher have an original thought, which is depressing as hell to me personally. But then, of course, most people expect things other than "original thoughts" when it comes to their idea of an ideal partner!) ;p

The Rod Stewart binge continues............................

...for no reason whatsoever. I was 10 or 12 in his heyday! I just bought a "Hits" CD for cheap, though, and I've listened to it about 20 times in the past week............................................

You Wear It Well

"Madame Onassis got nothing on you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reason to Believe (1971)

And from a song of Stewart's more than 20 years later: "May you never love in vain."

I can't stop looking at this!

Currently up for sale on eBay. 

 

Freshmen

The man on the far right: In English class in 1980, I sat behind him and once dropped a wad of paper down the back of his shirt just so I could fish it out and lightly touch his shoulder-blades in the process. (Two years later, a girl would do the same to/for me with a leaf and I'd fall in love.) 

 

He was little and lithe then, his dad a local banker, with a head of bushy dark hair and short-sleeved knit shirts bought from Sears. 

 

 

Hola! Holla! Hello!

Yesterday I'd just crossed the street after a long light and was about to heave up the last hill of the half-mile trek to my bus-stop home when I heard someone hollering my name. Weird! I turned and looked and looked and looked... And then: About a block back was my old library boss from 13 years ago peering at me and smiling.

"Hi T---!" I yelled and waved, then turned back around and continued the march to my stop. Feeling suddenly happy to have seen her, but then pissed off at myself: "What the hell is wrong with you? Why didn't you go back and say hello??"

2000, the year I left the library, was a definite turning point, a cut-off point, in my life. A pleasant environment, but a complete dead end. The pay so low, the hope for advancement so low, the lazy (yet annoyingly superior for no reason that I could see) attitude of most of the people there... Working there at that point felt utterly deadening to me -- I felt antsy, better, "destined for greater things." And I'd been there, off and on, since 1983; my first part-time college job was shelving books on the floor that I ended up supervising. 2000 was the year I left for good, to work for a publishing company. I never wanted to look back at that library-part of my life because I was so miserable during most of it.

This boss, though, was always very cool. Smart, very good at her job, understanding, sympathetic. Doing her best to deal with both me and HER boss, whom I was constantly at odds with (because he was so illogical and lazy, let me say). We'd often spend hours talking in her office, about her family (and my shallow relationship problems) -- to this day I remember what really turns her husband on! :) I also remember hurting her feelings once when I was going on and on at work about a party I was going to have at my house that weekend. I didn't invite her because I thought she, with a husband and child, wouldn't be interested in coming. She, though, thought I didn't invite her because she was black. :(

When I gave my notice in 2000, she had been out for a month with medical problems. So her boss, the dumb/lazy guy that I did not respect, gave me my final evaluation. His evaluation was bad. My written response to it was bad. I left there hating him and the whole lazy-ass place, vowing to never look back. But regretting that I couldn't have parted with HER on better terms. I've thought about her many times in the 13 years since I left: how decent she was under difficult circumstances, how I didn't behave very well at work (me arguing constantly about EVERYTHING, even parking) because I was so unhappy with my life...

So now here we are yelling "hi!" at each other, 13 years later! :)  Today, I immediately e-mailed her (looked her up on the university directory), saying sorry for running off (had to catch that bus), but let's get together for lunch and catch up before my temp job ends in October. She e-mailed back, yes let's.

The first thing I will do when I see her again is apologize for how obnoxiously I acted when I worked there.

-------------------------------------------------------

About the above: Just thinking about how, in general, we often wish (pray) we had a chance to go back and give something another shot. ("I'll do better next time, I swear!") Thing is, we're being kind of disingenuous: We don't exactly mean the quite reasonable "Just give me another chance." We mean, rather, the UNreasonable: "Just make everything perfect next time."

I had my second chance with my first girlfriend 7 years later. I had my second chance with Sandra 22 years later. Sandra had her second chance with Jim also decades later. What we all got was a re-hash of the un-ease of the first time. (Physical things and life situations of a person might change, but I don't know that the energy field around a person changes.) Hey, we all got the second chance per heartfelt request, though. That's completely fair. Thanks, Universe.

Breaking Bad / Ozymandias

Good lord, but Breaking Bad is in the air lately! I, though the show appears on AMC which I HAVE on basic cable, had only barely even heard of it, much less watched it, since its 2008 debut.

A few days ago on the bus, though, one mid-30s hipster with plaid shirt/beard got on and hailed another mid-30s hipster with plaid shirt/beard; after the perfunctory hellos, they immediately started in on whether each had seen the last episode of BB and what the true nature of Walter's relationship with his son was... I was thinking to myself, "OK, how cute that the hipster-dads are talking about their favorite TV show... This must be how schlumpfy hipster dads bond nowadays..." (As in, "Heaven forbid they should stay out 'til all hours drinking or something and bond over their shared thoughts during THAT.")

Then yesterday I came upon an in-depth interview with "Breaking Bad"'s star Bryan Cranston in a recent "The New Yorker." I'd never heard of the man. And I, without the magazine in front of me now, didn't take anything away from the article other than that his mother became, in his words, like Blanche DuBois after her divorce and that he now requires his wife and daughter to clean the house for one hour a week because he's a neat freak. (I.e., I learned about the bare-bones plot of the show from reading about its star, but nothing stuck other than the man's personal memories/quirks.)

Then just now I was logging in to Yahoo and in its breaking-news box was the word "Ozymandias." A poem by Shelley that I like a lot, about the dissolution of even the once-grandest of things. (A p.s.: I'll always like New York City because I once saw an ad on a guy's T-shirt for "Ozymandias Realtors" -- an actual realtor! I love that kind of perspective!) When I immediately clicked on "Ozymandias," was taken to a Time magazine story: "'Ozymandias': What does that Breaking Bad episode title mean?"

What the hell, Breaking Bad? Dang. I'll watch, I'll watch!


Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Id, Ego, Super-ego

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Id,_ego,_and_super-ego

Id, ego and super-ego are the three parts of the psychic apparatus defined in Sigmund Freud's structural model of the psyche; they are the three theoretical constructs in terms of whose activity and interaction mental life is described. According to this model of the psyche, the id is the set of uncoordinated instinctual trends; the super-ego plays the critical and moralizing role; and the ego is the organized, realistic part that mediates between the desires of the id and the super-ego.^[1] The super-ego can stop you from doing certain things that your id may want you to do.<sup>[2]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</sup>

Funny how Freud's quaint theory was deemed so important for so long. (Is it still? I confess I don't keep up with current psychiatric theory.)  Reading about it today, it seems to me like nothing but Creationism or Fairy Tales... The guy had a good imagination and a scholarly background and a fatherly/authoritative façade... And so everyone bought into what he was saying.

I think he was just trying to theorize about the trends he was seeing at the time in his own practice. There's quite a difference between trend-spotting and having some true insight. (As per much of the Bible: It was OBVIOUSLY written by guys sitting around making guesses as to the origins of the world, based solely on THEIR desert world. Dinosaurs weren't mentioned because they didn't know that they had existed. Other planets weren't mentioned because they didn't know that they existed. ET CETERA.)

I think Freud got the common-sense personality concepts of "Id" and "Ego" right. Id, the subterranean. Ego, the functional part. Totally off on the "Super-Ego" part, though. (The Ego actually performing that role.)  At the time of his writing, Freud thought "the super-ego also takes on the influence of those who have stepped into the place of parents — educators, teachers, people chosen as ideal models." He meant this as a CONTROLLING force. Little understanding that, in fact, outer societal influences are often the means of PERMISSION rather than of control. At least today. 

Today there's the functioning-in-the-world Ego; the at-home-alone-with-your-own-thoughts Id; and the... (sadly seemingly necessary) WILD PROJECTION AND SALESMANSHIP OF IDEAL SELF. I figured out by high school that this last "salesmanship thing" might exist. My suspicion confirmed in college and in adult work/love life. In a few wonderful instances, there's no need for such salesmanship. But, unfortunately, the majority of the time, it's required.

I think trees are so cool because of their simply DUAL nature: the outer exhibition balanced by the equally intricate workings underground. They ARE and they ARE. There's no "not really, but let's make something up and SAY it's so until it's believed as true, then congratulate ourselves for fooling others while simultaneously castigating ourselves for being so phony." Therein lies the sickness. Freud didn't see this at all.

"You're the warmest thing I've ever found..."

Rod Stewart, 1977.

A Scene from "The Bell Jar" (Conversation with the Dybbuk)

-------------------------------

Hilda moved like a mannequin the whole way.

"That's a lovely hat, did you make it?"

I half-expected Hilda to turn on me and say, "You sound sick," but she only extended and then retracted her swanny neck.

"Yes."

The night before I'd seen a play where the heroine was possessed by a dybbuk, and when the dybbuk spoke from her mouth its voice sounded so cavernous and deep you couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. Well Hilda's voice sounded just like the voice of that dybbuk.

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist. The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.

So I said, "Isn't it awful about the Rosenbergs?"

The Rosenbergs were to be electrocuted late that night.

"Yes!" Hilda said, and at last I felt I had touched a human string in the cat's cradle of her heart. It was only as the two of us waited for the others in the tomb-like morning gloom of the conference room that Hilda amplified that Yes of hers.

"It's awful such people should be alive."

She yawned then, and her pale orange mouth opened on a large darkness. Fascinated, I stared at the blind cave behind her face until the two lips met and moved and the dybbuk spoke out of its hiding place, "I'm so glad they're going to die."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"I know your stairs and your doorway"

Tom Waits' original version of "Downtown Train" 1985, and Rod Stewart's cover from 1989. (What cracks me up the most about the '89 version is the bizarre visual interpretation of "Brooklyn girls" as somehow being prim blonde models with French braids. Not quite what Waits had in mind.)





Outside another yellow moon
Punched a hole in the nighttime, yes
I climb through the window and down the street
Shining like a new dime
The downtown trains are full
With all those Brooklyn girls
They try so hard to break out of their little worlds

You wave your hand and they scatter like crows
They have nothing that will ever capture your heart
They're just thorns without the rose
Be careful of them in the dark
Oh if I was the one
You chose to be your only one
Oh baby can't you hear me now

Chorus:
Will I see you tonight
On a downtown train
Every night it's just the same
You leave me lonely, now
I know your window and I know its late
I know your stairs and your doorway
I walk down your street and past your gate
I stand by the light at the four way
You watch them as they fall
They stay at the carnival
But they'll never win you back

Chorus:
Will I see you tonight
On a downtown train
Where every night it's just the same
You leave me lonely
Will I see you tonight
On a downtown train
All of my dreams just fall like rain
All upon a downtown train

Proud?



Someone posted the below meme on Facebook, apparently seeking "Likes" for its, what, "Triumph of the Utterly Inane/Irrelevant"?:

 

Upon reading the above, I'm embarrassed for myself (born in 1965). Some generations can claim to have survived the Great Depression. Some can claim to have helped save the world from Nazism. Even the '60s gen can claim to have introduced concepts of equality and ecology into the mainstream of society. But... "We are the first who played video games" and "We traveled in cars without seat belts"? This is one of the saddest things I've ever read.

Somebody That I Used to Know

Artsy Youthful Angst alive and well in 2013!




Compare to 1981 Artsy Youthful Angst:

Mad World (Tears for Fears, 1983)

What I liked about my mother was her acting out characters from my favorite cartoons and shows with me (how patient she must have been for my eternal need for "Wacky Races" reenactions, with me as Penelope Pitstop). I liked how clean and utterly un-chaotic our house always was (despite various houses and chaos between her/my father). I liked how she always made birthdays and Christmases special and nice -- always the wonderful lead-up, the decorations, then the pageantry of the actual day.

What I liked about my father... When I was a little kid, maybe 4, he'd come home from work and take his Air Force uniform and T-shirt off; my mom said I'd always go straight for the T-shirt and want to take it to bed with me; I liked how it smelled. She also told me that when I was little, I always called out for one parent after I'd gone to bed: If I had NOT wet the bed, I'd call for my mother; if I HAD wet the bed, I'd call for my daddy, because he was the one who wouldn't get mad... I also like the few times he took me swimming and bowling. And, later, near the end of the marriage, staying up and peacefully watching movies with him.

If you want more love, why don't you say so?

I just recently bought 2 John Mayer albums, 2008's "Continuum" and 2010's "Battle Studies." (The former after reading great reviews on Amazon; the latter after remembering hearing the songs "Heartbreak Warfare" and "All We Ever Do Is Say Goodbye" back in 2010 and liking them a whole lot.)

"Continuum," despite its Amazon kudos, was horrible. Shallow, self-satisfied, generic, bland. In my mind, the musical equivalent of the movie "Beaches."

"Battle Studies," on the other hand, has a real vibe to it. I used to hate the very concept of John Mayer, how he presented himself -- as supposedly "thoughtful yet bold" without being anywhere near either truly "thoughtful" or "bold"... "Continuum" is, to me, the very epitome of why the general public thinks he sucks. With "Battle Studies," though, there's a real musical flow and an actual emotional/lyrical honesty. (He had me at "Red wine and Ambien / You're talking shit again..." and "Drop his name / Push it in and twist the knife again / Watch my face / As I pretend to feel no pain..." and "How come the only way to know how high you get me / is to see how far I fall"...)

I'm getting rid of "Continuum" as soon as possible. I can't wait to keep listening to "Battle Studies."

Lightning strikes
Inside my chest to keep me up at night
Dream of ways
To make you understand my pain

Clouds of sulfur in the air
Bombs are falling everywhere
It's heartbreak warfare
Once you want it to begin,
No one really ever wins
In heartbreak warfare

If you want more love,
why don't you say so?
If you want more love,
why don't you say so?

Drop his name
Push it in and twist the knife again
Watch my face
As I pretend to feel no pain

Clouds of sulfur in the air
Bombs are falling everywhere
It's heartbreak warfare
Once you want it to begin,
No one really ever wins
In heartbreak warfare.

If you want more love,
why don't you say so? 
If you want more love,
why don't you say so?

Just say so...

How come the only way to know how high you get me
is to see how far I fall
God only knows how much I'd love you if you let me
but I can't break through at all.

It's a heartbreak...

I don't care if we don't sleep at all tonight
Let's just fix this whole thing now
I swear to God we're gonna get it right
If you lay your weapon down
Red wine and Ambien
You're talking shit again, it's heartbreak warfare
Good to know it's all a game
Disappointment has a name, it's heartbreak, heartbreak.

It's heartbreak warfare
It's heartbreak warfare
It's heartbreak warfare

Fucking Genius

Is agitation necessary?

Leo Astrocenter.com horoscope for 9/12/13:

Sometimes it seems impossible to express any feelings that do not come across as contrived, especially when you're seeking some artistic truth. You feel buried under such an unending cascade of myths and images that sometimes it feels as though you'll drown. Does the Age of Communication herald the End of Creativity?

-----------------------

True and not true. I'm decidedly NOT currently "buried under such an unending cascade of myths and images" right now. (Kinda wish I were. I miss them.)

No, rather, I've been feeling preternaturally calm for the past month or so, interacting calmly with real-life situations. My job is OK. Sandra and I are OK. There aren't fights and drama going on anywhere. "Does the Age of Communication herald the End of Creativity?" I wonder: I do feel kind of flat now that I'm not AGITATED about something! :)

Can't Hardly Wait

My love-song for a girl in '87.

--------------------------------------------------------------

 

I'll write you a letter tomorrow
Tonight I can't hold a pen
Someone's got a stamp that I can borrow
I promise not to blow the address again

Lights that flash in the evening
Through a crack in the drapes

Jesus rides beside me
He never buys any smokes
Hurry up, hurry up, ain't you had enough of this stuff?
Ashtray floors, dirty clothes, and filthy jokes

See you're high and lonesome
Try and try and try

Lights that flash in the evening
Through a hole in the drapes
I'll be home when I'm sleeping
I can't hardly wait

I can't wait...

Boney M: Rivers of Babylon & Rasputin (1978)

"How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"

Which one are you?

from "Strangers in the Wind"

Strangers in the Wind
Another Rainy Day in New York City
Shoorah Shoorah for Hollywood

From the Bay City Rollers' last album with singer Les McKeown (1978), the last album I bought as a fan. I, about 10 years later, accidentally came across "Elevator" and liked it and now own it; but my BCR era lasted just as long as the Les-vocals did. (Though soulful, tormented Eric --writer or cowriter of all the songs below--was always my favorite, the group wasn't the same after McKeown's departure. I loved his voice then and just now realize how distinctive it was, how much he brought to every song, even if mediocre; there is no "Bay City Rollers" without him.)



...In her hand lies an opened book
She gives a sign then she turns the page
And in her smile she knows how it all will end
But in my eyes she sees
We're strangers in the wind




Like early morning strangers we had nothing left to say but
"See you 'round"...

It's another rainy day in New York City
At night those city lights they sure look pretty
I held my candle to the wind and watched my dreams just sail away...





Rudy stole the heart of the world
Dream lover of the silver screen
Your mama used to call out his name
But in the crowd was never seen
Powder puffs and gigolos
Dancing girls in soft repose
Natasha, what did you see
Behind the scenes of Valvoline...

"I Am Not Ashamed"

 

I've been searching online for Barbara Payton's 1963 autobiography "I Am Not Ashamed" for weeks now, unable to find a copy for under $50 (and even that a re-issue from 2004, also now out of print), which I wasn't willing to pay... Today on eBay, thought I'd try yet another search... and look what I just won for a grand "Buy It Now" total (including s/h) of $8.33!!

 

The eclectic "taste" of the seller cracks me up; and I certainly hadn't thought of early '90s personalities Reiser and Joe Bob Briggs for a while. Aside from the Payton book, I'll probably keep all of the rest except for Reiser's, whose bon mots I'm quite sure don't apply to anyone any more. (Did they ever, except to a generic, office-conversation-conscious group of Yuppies for about 6 months in 1994?) 

 

Payton and the Trapp Family and early/mid Bruce, on the other hand, are timeless. (Joe Bob Briggs kind of an early pop-culture libertarian.)



Gay Kids Holding Hands on Campus

Today was the day before the first day of the Fall semester at UT-Austin, so, after a summer of working around a sparsely populated campus, everyone was BACK!

After my lunch break, I was sitting outside on a low building ledge having a cig when two very young-looking punk chicks (shaved heads, torn Ts) walked by me holding hands... and then one of them turned around and gave me the biggest smile! (What for, honey?! I'm 48! But thank you!) :) 

And then as I was getting off work and walking to my bus, I stopped by my favorite ancient oak tree for a smoke...And two very young-looking nerdy boys walked by me holding hands. Neither of this pair smiled at me, but I was grinning inside at THEM! I wanted to run after them and shake them and say, "You guys are so CUTE! And so lucky to be able to be sweet and young together."

When I first came to campus 30 years ago in the fall of 1983, I was deeply in love with a girl back home, whom I'd spend the majority of the past summer with; but she quickly found a new "best friend" once I'd left for college. I couldn't talk to anyone about my very-great loss. In the meantime, on campus, there was the touring AIDS quilt: When I looked at the guest-book, one entry (representative of many) said, "Die, faggots." When I stood on the Drag watching the annual student-group parade, I felt a thrill when the gay-student float went by. And then a frat-boy standing in the crowd next to me yelled out toward the gay float: "Fuck off, stupid faggots." I slunk home.

So much sadness and hate in the '80s when I was a young person trying to come out.

I am so happy for the cute kids I saw today holding hands. So happy that they have the chance to be "young and in love." And forever deeply sad/warped that I missed out on that.

Joan Crawford / Flapper Girl (Lumineers)

Joan Crawford / Bad Reputation

Joan Crawford / Get Sexy

Joan Crawford in "Dance, Fools, Dance" ('31)

The Union

Working for the past 2 months near the campus of my alma mater and so a couple of times a week lunching at the Student Union.

Earlier in the week while I was there: An extremely old couple hobbled in, clutching hands. Both were past 85, probably past 90, all hunched over and skin-and-bone. Both wore baseball caps. The man also carried a backpack. He carefully led his wife to a table right in front of me and made sure she was seated, then slowly made his way off to the food court.

As soon as he left, the woman turned around and smiled broadly at me. I initially smiled back. But then she kept staring at me and smiling. I then got irritated and bent to my food, consciously ignoring her.

Within a minute, she got up from her table and staggered past me, into the broader seating area. "Oh fuck," I thought, by this time figuring out that something was wrong. I'd made eye contact with her. Sans her husband or anyone else, I was now responsible for what happened to her. I stopped eating and turned around so I could watch her. She continued wandering aimlessly around the huge room. I didn't know at what point I should step in and guide her back to her table. As long as I could still see her, I thought it was OK to just let her be. And I was curious as to what her husband's reaction would be when he got back with the food.

When he showed up minutes later, he at first looked toward their table. Seeing no one, he then scanned the room and spotted his wife. Then made eye contact with me and said to me as he passed: "That's my wife. She has Alzheimer's."

I didn't know what to say back. I HAD been keeping an eye on her, but I didn't want to say to him, "Yes, I know. I was watching out." I didn't know if that would be condescending or make him feel bad, like he had been remiss in some way. What I did was just nod back without smiling and keep eating. But afterwards, that felt cold. I felt that I SHOULD have said something friendly to him.

Once he got her back to their table, he pulled out 2 small hamburgers from the Wendy's bag. Nothing else, no fries or Cokes or anything. He fed one of the burgers to her, and within 15 minutes they made their way out again.

-------------------------------------

A sad thing that the above made me think of:  A 2-year-old mindlessly grinning at me wouldn't have caused irritation. A 2-year-old wandering off by herself sans parent would have made me immediately get up and go fetch her. A 90-year-old, though, displaying the same behavior... my reactions were the opposite. What might have been cute in a 2-year-old was horrifying to me in a 90-year-old Alzheimer's sufferer. Both at similar mental capacity, but at opposite ends of the life spectrum. Why a 2-year-old's naturally undeveloped mental behavior not in any way deemed frightening but a 90-year-old's naturally deteriorating mental behavior frightening? (Well, obviously, I guess, that I saw in the old woman a horrible portent of my own future agedness. And a realization that I had not had a realization of The Life Spectrum. Which is a bell curve, not a trajectory moving constantly upward, as you think when you're young.)

Time Passages

While the temperature's still hitting 100 degrees here in Austin, there has always been something about the end of August and its impending new school and football seasons that makes this time of year mentally stimulating for me. (Plus there's the knowledge that I've survived another season of stagnant, lethargy-inducing heat and that within a month, I can start leaving my windows open again, at least at night. I crave some fresh air after 4 months of AC!)

And so with fall kinda-sorta in the air, I then pushed season-change annoyingly further -- to thinking about which calendar to buy for 2014. (I have a lot of free time at my current temp gig.) I immediately starting browsing for various New York City calendars, which I've had for the past I-don't-know-how-many years. And was surprised, after looking at them, to find myself thinking, "Eh." I'll always like/admire the town and think it a gorgeous, exciting place. But I've pretty much gotten over MISSING it (as I had for the past 3 years) or DREAMING about it (as I did in the years before I got to live there). What initially caught my fancy this time while browsing on Amazon:

 

I'd only vaguely heard of a "Grumpy Cat" Internet sensation. Turns out there's a 2014 Grumpy Cat calendar, too, which cracked me up until I was crying. But...NO. I can't have a calendar with funny animals on it. That would just mean that I'd given up on life completely. So I will probably get this one instead:

Los Angeles/Hollywood has always scared me. The utter vapidity and apparent soullessness. (The view of the town in movies like "Annie Hall" and "Day of the Locust" always struck me as being horrifyingly psychologically true.) But now that I'm older, I think I can take a step back from that fear for my personal soul-safety (ha! among other things, being 48 means no longer being so malleable and attractive to soul-leeches) and simply appreciate some of the history of the place, and of the stories/haunts of some of the people who have lived/died there -- American Dream stories like Joan Crawford's, as well as flip-side Nightmare stories like Barbara Payton's or Charles Manson's. Love it or hate it, it IS obviously a fascinating place, a crux that attracts some pretty powerful (and extreme) energy. I'm curious, and want to feel for myself, what it is about the place that inspires such.

-----------

Speaking of Hollywood, I haven't yet received my Barbara Payton bio, but I did get/read today John Gilmore's "Laid Bare: A Memoir of Wrecked Lives and the Hollywood Death Trip." Despite the lurid subtitle and subject matter, Gilmore's actually a subtle, insightful writer. A plug at the frontispiece by Gary Indiana:

"Gilmore deals with mythically familiar subjects, but not to turn them inside out. Instead, he boils off the myth and shows you how things really were, and what things felt like to the people living what later became a myth. Most books that try to do this take the later myth as something almost ordained by fate -- which is only true ex post facto -- so that the other parts of a celebrated person's life are simply rendered as obstacles and setbacks to the ultimate goal; the people they knew 'on the way up' become extraneous minor characters, etc. That approach only reinforces the unfortunately widespread belief that celebrities are the only people who have real lives. Gilmore shows what a pile of shit that ultimate goal really is, and that the people who get there are completely warped by the process of getting there and that they don't change into wonderful beings just because ten million people know who they are...

I think, ultimately, Gilmore's work is as much opposed to gossip as it is to mythmaking, because both are different faces of celebrity-worship, an epidemic mental illness in our society. When you find someone who isn't infected with it to one degree or another, you realize, as somebody once said, that sanity is the most profound moral option of our time."

My CDs

are starting

to hurt

my 

EYES!!!

I Pray For You (Baby)

While I in the mid-80s owned Julian Lennon's first two albums ("Valotte" and "Secret Value of Daydreaming"), and, later, his '99 "comeback" "Photograph Smile," I wasn't about to start re-buying any of those individually 'cause they weren't all that great to begin with. Trying to find some sort of "hits" of his, I came across VH1's "Behind the Music: The Julian Lennon Collection," which is, believe it or not, usually selling for $20 or more on Amazon and eBay. (I finally got a CD for $11 or so.)  I was kind of hoping that a distillation of his songs would be a cheerful experience to re-listen to, but no. Of the 16 songs of the album that I downloaded to my iPod, I immediately deleted 5 of them (most from "Mr. Jordan") 'cause they were as bad as I remembered them to be 25 years ago. (One, "Jesse," I kept on there just because it was SO bad that I wanted it around in case I had to prove just how bad! "Jesse's in a new low rider / Outside Frank's drive-in / He's there with Juanita and the gang...")

Julian's problem is... He simply just can't WRITE very well. Occasionally, he'll come up with a catchy hook, but then he can't seem to do anything with it within a 4-minute song format. ("Say You're Wrong," from his '85 debut album, is an example of a pop song just DYING to be good; it's REALLY good for about 40 seconds and then the non-imagination/dumbness of the repetition gets irritating. Same with the '99 "I Don't Wanna Know" clip shown below -- it's tunefully a better song than "Say You're Wrong"...but in '99 Julian was nearing 40, yet still writing like a 12-year-old discovering rhymes for the first time.)

All said, of the 16 songs on the VH1 "hits," I'm glad to have "Valotte," "Saltwater," "Day After Day," "I Don't Wanna Know," and "Photograph Smile." The latter three from his '99 attempted comeback, and all still extremely lyrically challenged.



...Oh baby, you were never really good for me
Just maybe, you're a stranger to reality
And baby, don't you know you haven't got a clue
'Cause lately, I don't know what to do.

I don't wanna know what's going on
And I don't wanna know what's right or wrong
And I don't wanna know whose bed you're in
And I don't wanna know just where you've been.

Oh baby, you said you're changing for the better now
Just maybe, you're not as strong as you thought somehow
And baby, you know you're heading down a one way track
And baby, I won't bring you back.

Well, you said you were looking for a better way
But you just keep coming back
To a place you can never seem to get away ["to a place you can never seem to get away"? REALLY? Couldn't you have simply used "to a place that you can't escape" instead?]
That will always hold you back...

Oh baby, you said you'd rather be a daddy's girl,
But lately, you're tryin' to fight against the whole wide world
Just maybe, you've found a love that you can hold on to
And baby, I pray for you.

[I don't ever want to hear "baby" / "maybe" or a line ending with "back" ever again after this!]

Move Over Darling

Joan Crawford and Doris Day clubbing in 1960.

 

 

[Nerd confession: Back in 2006, I'd just gotten both a booming new car stereo system AND the Doris Day "Golden Girl" hits collection. On my way to work one day, was blasting "Move Over Darling" with the windows down, feelin' pretty sexy and cool... Until I came to a stoplight, and a carload o' frat boys happened to pull up next to me right when the "Make love to me" chorus was going on and on and on and on and on... ]

Joan Crawford / Beautiful Dirty Rich