January 14th, 2004

terminalblacknight

court n' spark

when i play this album, i'm a little girl again. sitting at our cheap metal drop-leaf kitchen table in my plaid school uniform skirt, eating breakfast with my daddy while he plays that square hard plastic transistor radio he got sometime in the 60's. i don't have a radio of my own yet. dad's has a big round tuning dial, and only gets AM which is all you need in those days, or at least all that 50-year-old people like daddy need to hear news and summer baseball games ("SWINGGGGG!!! and a miss!"). mornings, daddy blasts it to catch the news while he's shoveling down his cornflakes and twice-brewed Maxwell House. Altho my mom, who is darting around in a robe half-awake (b/c she's a night owl) slicing bananas on cereal and slapping baloney sandwiches together (b/c A Good Wife Gets Up and Fixes Her Family's Breakfast and Lunch when she'd rather stay in bed) would rather the radio be off. but daddy is the Man and the BreadWinner and will be in a Bad Mood if he can't hear the news so she puts up with it.

The songs that come on are an afterthought to my dad, though he likes Anne Murray and enjoys poking fun at I'm-so-sorry-Uncle-Albert. but I hang on every word of certain tunes. Like, if I get to hear "Free Man in Paris" or "Help me, I think I'm falling/ in love with you" it makes my morning and I'll sing it under my breath all the way to St. Clement School stopping approximately 162 times to pullup my knee socks which constantly fall down b/c I have fatted calves. of course I have to make up half the words b/c I don't own the record and thus have to hear the song over and over on the radio to learn the proper words, which is hard when the DJ doesn't play it every morning and mom is apt to ask dad if he wants mayo on his sandwich just as I'm straining to catch a line. moments like that I wish I was a Free Man in Paris, or anywhere, and that my parents would just disappear because like the World, they are Too Much With Us, and I need space to think about important things like Stokin' the Star-Maker Machinery Behind the Popular Songs, and how one might go about doing that exactly...

...even now, awful as it sounds, when people do disappear, the Long Time Gone bothers me less than the stress and pain and worry and pain leading up to and surrounding the moment of exit, like the cordial surrounding the cherry. remember laying on my childhood bed, sucking down those cheap cherry-chocolates while looking at the pictures in Equal Justice Under Law: The Supreme Court in American Life and listening to that same ol' AM radio blaring David Bowie and John Lennon wailing "Fame" ad nauseam. and even though now I'd probably be listening to remastered Stones or else Some Damn Band From Ohio (tm), that still strikes me as a lovely way to while away an afternoon.
  • Current Music
    see title supra
used to care

francesco scavullo's dead

they say jan 6 but i only just found out on blog_of_death. I'm kinda sad, not so much because the guy died (he was old) but because it's like the Death of the Way I Wanted To Look When I Still Wanted To Look Some Way Other Than the Way I Look. all those Cosmo covers, that blown-back hair, that book Scavullo - Women that made me unhappy when I was a teenager because I thought I was so ugly by comparison. later I realized it's all mostly bones and cam tricks and besides I wasn't ugly or at least most of the right people didn't think so. i should dig up a copy of that book again, I'd probably actually enjoy looking at those pictures now.
Pingouin a Paris

question

If people know the truth, or *really* think they're right,
then, assuming some legal process is not at stake (like no one is going to get put to death, locked up or lose an economic benefit/ constitutional right, etc.)
why do they worry so much about what others think?

confidence doesn't need a backup...