Drive

 

Who's gonna drive you home Tonight?

Joyeux Anniversaire

 

Tavern

 

I'll keep a little tavern
   Below the high hill's crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
   May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,
   And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
   Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveler,
   And dream his journey's end,
But I will rouse at midnight
   The falling fire to tend.

Aye, 'tis a curious fancy—
   But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
   A long time ago.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Lonely Days, Lonely Nights

                                                         Where would I be without my woman?

Mr. Jones And Me

 

                                                    Yeah, everybody wants to pass as cats.

                                                     Because something is happening here

                                                            But you don't know what it is
                                                                  Do you, Mister Jones?

Hamburger Ads! - Pop Up In My Head

 

We're Finally On Our Own

 

                                                         The rich must profit and get richer

                                                              And the poor must stay poor.

What's Old Is New

 When you idle at the stoplight

You better get the signal right.

Le Chat

 Come, superb cat, to my amorous heart;

Hold back the talons of your paws,
Let me gaze into your beautiful eyes
Of metal and agate.

When my fingers leisurely caress you,
Your head and your elastic back,
And when my hand tingles with the pleasure
Of feeling your electric body,

In spirit I see my woman. Her gaze
Like your own, amiable beast,
Profound and cold, cuts and cleaves like a dart,

And, from her head down to her feet,
A subtle air, a dangerous perfume
Floats about her dusky body.

Charles Baudelaire

Everyday Is Like "Thursday"

 

The day of reckoning had arrived. Morrissey at the Benedum Center in Pittsburgh on Thursday September 25. Would I go? Could I let myself be cooped up in a building with 2800 people I didn't know? My love of  Morrissey and his music was the most important factor in the decision. Of course it was the right choice. It was a wonderful, enchanting evening with Our Moz and his music. The only slightly negative thing was "Pastrami Pete" to my left. He smelled like he had just eaten a large pastrami sandwich with onions and pickles. It was literally oozing out of his pores.

Back to the main attraction. Our Moz was magnificent. He proudly strode on stage with his band to thunderous applause and launched into "There Is A Light". It was electric. The Benedum was reverberating with one of the greatest songs ever written.  And when the song was done the crowd shook the walls with noise and clapping of approval that I think even surprised Morrissey. He seemed genuinely touched by the appreciation. The next song was "Suedehead". Again, the audience roared its approval and Our Moz seemed energized. It was magic. He sang "Alma Matters", "First Of The Gang To Die" and "How Soon Is Now", all were absolutely delightful.

He also played "Lost", which was very somber. He then gave us a very raucous version of "Shoplifters" The band sounded fantastic. I thought "The Loop" was outstanding with Our Moz shaking the maracas in time with the beat, then throwing them at the screen when the song was ending. The title to the post was Our Moz interjecting how life on the road truly every day could be like Thursday. Morrissey was very engaged with the audience and was very much enjoying himself. Jacky is only happy j/k. I thought "I Know It's Over" was particularly emotional with his mother's picture on the screen behind him.

The show marched on with a celebratory "Everyday Is Like Sunday" and I thought a fine version of "I Will see You In Far Off Places."  The encore consisted of a solemn "I Won't Share You" and a very forthright "Irish Blood, English Heart". As the show as ended Our Moz went down the front row shaking hands with his delighted patrons. He did several shirt throws and changes. All in all, an enchanting evening. The crowd didn't want it to end. The lights came on and the mad rush to the exits.

Exit, exit

Everybody's heading for the exit, exit.

Earlier in the day, I had a dozen roses delivered to Morrissey's dressing room as a welcome to Pittsburgh. I sincerely hope he got them. The security was much heightened after the death threats to him. In times like these you can't be too careful.

It was another lovely evening with a Charming Man, unfortunately too long in the making. I hope Morrissey decides to stop again sooner than later in Pittsburgh. Despite me being a true misanthrope, the event was well worth the inconvenience to my psyche.

                                                             "There Is A Light"

A Shipwrecked Life?

 The Fisher's Boy

MY life is like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean’s edge as I can go;
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.

My sole employment is, and scrupulous care,
To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,—
Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,
Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides.

I have but few companions on the shore:
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea;
Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er
Is deeper known upon the strand to me.

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view;
Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,
And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.

Henry David Thoreau

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen

Time In A Bottle

 

Time, Real And Imaginary

On the wide level of a mountain's head,
(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out-spread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,
      A sister and a brother !
      This far outstripp'd the other ;
     Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
     And looks and listens for the boy behind :
     [Image] For he, alas ! is blind !
O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,
And knows not whether he be first or last.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A Poor - Torn Heart - A Tattered Heart

 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart—

That sat it down to rest—
Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day
Flowed silver to the West—
Nor noticed Night did soft descend—
Nor Constellation burn—
Intent upon the vision
Of latitudes unknown.

The angels—happening that way
This dusty heart espied—
Tenderly took it up from toil
And carried it to God—
There—sandals for the Barefoot—
There—gathered from the gales—
Do the blue havens by the hand
Lead the wandering Sails.

Emily Dickinson

The Flame

 

She's Got Her Ticket

She's got her ticket
I think she gonna use it
I think she's going to fly away
No-one should try and stop her
Persuade her with their power
She says that her mind is made up.

 

A Face In The Crowd

 

Ben E. Dum - Should I Stay or Should I Go?

 I am in a state of shock. I just found something out that I thought would never happen again. Our Moz is coming to Pittsburgh on September 25 at the Benedum Center. The last concert I attended was his show here on January 21, 2013. I was fully prepared to never attend another show. I'm very much a misanthrope. I hate crowds of people. I can feel their thoughts and tangled emotions bouncing against my brain. My only defense to attempt to lock them out is silence and concentration on being alone. I don't think I have enochlophobia but I think there is a touch of Asperger's going on here.

So, what do I do? I have to go to see Morrissey. I may never have a chance to see him again. Remember, in a concert hall of 2800 people I will be the one that is truly alone clawing against my inner demons. If Our Moz sees me, please don't think I'm not enjoying myself. Have mercy on me. I will be two people that night, one delighted to see my favorite artist, the other absolutely dreading the situation I put myself in.

Un Hombre Para Todas Las Estaciones

                                                                          Happy Birthday

Hang On

 

Parisian Paintings

 Along the old suburb, where hangs from the hovels

The shutters, shelter from secret lusts, When
the cruel sun strikes with redoubled strokes
On the city and the fields, on the roofs and the corn.
I am going to practice alone at my whimsical fencing, Sniffing
out in every corner the hazards of rhyme.
Stumbling over words as well as on cobblestones, Sometimes
bumping into verses long dreamed of.

This foster father, enemy of chlorosis, Awakens
in the fields worms as well as roses;
He causes worries to evaporate to heaven, And
fills brains and hives with honey.
It is he who rejuvenates the crutch-bearers
and makes them gay and gentle like maidens,
and commands the harvests to grow and ripen
in the immortal heart that always wants to blossom!
When, like a poet, he descends into the cities, He
ennobles the fate of the vilest things, And
introduces himself as a king, without noise and without servants, In
all the hospitals and in all the palaces.

Charles Baudelaire

                                                       The Flowers of Evil