Dear droogies,
I was going to wait until I had something a little more erudite to say about this, but in light of that snappy new Latin phrase meme from Quizilla (thanks, Snowball), I will share now.
Apparently somebody at the Sunday New York Times City section is angling for a job writing for The Simpsons, for how else can we explain the Old Grey Mare’s – sorry, I mean, the Grey Lady’s— use of the Worst Pun Ever? (Yes, Audrey, I am shamelessly invoking Comic Book Guy. He’s a useful guy to invoke, especially here in New York, where sneering is practically a biorhythm.)
Every Sunday, the City section runs a mini-list of restaurant review excerpts culled from previous Wednesday food sections. About six or seven restaurants are listed under a common theme. It may be a neighborhood; it may be a type of cuisine; it may be a place to take your kids, or a place to go when you’re getting away from your kids. Yesterday’s theme was fish, both in the context of sushi/sashimi restaurants and seafood restaurants such as Oceana. I can only imagine what was running through the mind of the poor person who had to come up with the headline – other than this, of course – when s/he wrote:
O Tempura, O Morays.
Okay, I laughed. But I am a complete and utter nerd, prone to finding humor in both food and Latin, and a sucker for painful humor to boot. Do not emulate me at all. It will only make you despondent.
Here are the answers to last night’s 20 Songs game. Yes, I know I should keep this open a little longer, but hey, my blog, my rules. 
Maybe next time. In the meantime, goodies to goliard, nakedjen, Audrey and Alicia for playing along. Femmes, I meant what I said about the baked goods. Drop me a line and tell me what you want. Again, as long as pastry cream is not involved, I should be able to ship it.
Watch out, the world’s behind you, there’s always someone around you who will call, it’s nothing at all.
The Velvet Underground, “Sunday Morning,” from The Velvet Underground and Nico, 1967. Five pretty little notes, and the future of music changed forever.
I am calling, yes, I’m calling, just to speak to you, for I know this night will kill me if I can’t be with you.
Lou Reed, “New York Telephone Conversation,” from Transformer, 1972. Lou’s second album after leaving the Velvets. “Walk on the Wild Side,” “Vicious” and “Satellite of Love” can all be found here.
And of course you can’t become if you only say what you would have done, so I missed a million miles of fun.
Len, “Steal My Sunshine,” from You Can’t Stop the Bum Rush, 1999. Successfully identified by Audrey. Sure, it’s cool to make fun of Len now, but I love this song with all my aging pop-fan heart. How can I not love a song that includes the spoken line, “Well...does he like butter tarts?” (Hello, Canada!)
Your emotions are frayed and your nerves are starting to creep; just remember the days, as hard as the time that you keep.
The Stranglers, “Skin Deep,” from Aural Sculpture, 1984. A far cry from the Stranglers’ first snarling single “Peaches,” but still a glossy piece of college radio ear candy that I could not get enough of.
You can take all the tea in China, put it in a big brown bag for me.
Van Morrison, “Tupelo Honey,” from Tupelo Honey, 1971. Successfully identified by goliard and nakedjen. One of the few songs to which Lloyd will dance with me at weddings.
Here is a sunrise; ain’t that enough? True as a clear sky; ain’t that enough?
Teenage Fanclub, “Ain’t That Enough,” from Songs from Northern Britain, 1997. Also on the collection Four Thousand Seven Hundred Sixty-Six Seconds: A Short Introduction to Teenage Fanclub, where I found mine. This song is so lush and sweet that tears slid down my face as I listened to it at work. I think I love this even more than “Your Love is the Place Where I Come From,” also found on both of the albums listed above, and both mentioned in Nick Hornby’s Songbook.
And here are the words for those who dare to speak of this open noisy big brilliant love, which is all I have to give.
Kitchens of Distinction, “Gorgeous Love,” from Strange Free World, 1991. What a happy coincidence. See my TypeList on the right side of this page. A particularly timely story in light of the gay marriage debate in the U.S.
I can’t write songs about girls anymore: I have to write songs about women, no more “boy meets girl, boy loses girl,” more like “man tries to understand what the hell went wrong!”
The Pursuit of Happiness, “I’m an Adult Now,” from Love Junk, 1988. A party-ready guitar line churns underneath a dry, spoken-word delivery. Every time VH1 Classic plays this, I light up like a Christmas tree.
One minute one, one minute two, one minute up and one minute down, what goes on in your mind, I think that I am upside down.
The Velvet Underground, “What Goes On,” The Velvet Underground, 1969. More Velvets. I was in a Lou mood yesterday. This is probably my favorite Velvets album. The organ chord on “What Goes On” hits my bone marrow every time I listen to it.
Who broke my heart? You did, you did…
ABC, “Poison Arrow,” from The Lexicon of Love, 1982. Successfully identified by Alicia. It’s a shame that this is the song that came up, great as it is, because this is the song everyone knows, but this whole album is filled with great lyrics, like from “Date Stamp”: “everything is temporary, written on the sand/looking for the girl who meets supply with demand.” Ah, well. Next time.
I could lead you, if you’d show me the way; I could always eat you if you get hungry.
Varnaline, “The Hammer Goes Down,” from Man of Sin, 1996. Also on a 1996 Zero Hour compilation, where I got mine. Dirty, fuzzy guitars. Plaintive, broken-glass lyrics. Ahhh, my people.
I packed my bags, went down the hill, left my dependents a-lying still.
Richard & Linda Thompson, “A Man in Need,” from Shoot Out the Lights, 1982. As far as I’m concerned, it is Richard Thompson, not Eric Clapton, who is the Slow Hand of God. Richard and Linda really were that good, and this album, written and recorded as their marriage was dissolving, is one of the best.
So this is where he came to hide when he ran from you, in a private detective overcoat and dirty dead man’s shoes?
Elvis Costello and the Attractions, “Man Out of Time,” from Imperial Bedroom, 1982. This was my favorite song when I was 15. It still holds up.
The good life was so elusive; handouts, they got me down; I had to regain my self-respect, so I got into camouflage.
Gang of Four, “I Love a Man in a Uniform,” from Songs of the Free, 1982. Three from 1982! Holy cow. This is just a badass dance song. I used to love it when this came on the radio. The wicked bass line is courtesy of Sara Lee, who played the wicked bass line for the B-52’s on “Love Shack.”
I heard you laughing when I left, but don’t you know, you only hurt yourself?
Carla Thomas, “I’ll Bring It On Home to You,” from The Complete Stax/Volt Singles, 1959-1968, released in 1991. If Aretha is the Queen of Soul, Carla was the Princess. She used to record at the Stax studio in Memphis on her holiday breaks from college, which I always thought was cool.
I have walked down train tracks, walked down train tracks drunk at 3 a.m.; it’s no big trick, it’s not magic when the trains don’t run till 6.
Too Much Joy, “Magic,” from Mutiny, 1993. Loud, snotty, tuneful, perfect pop. I am TMJ’s bitch, or would be if they weren’t such nice, clean-living, situationist young men.
Early to bed so you can wait for three buses, a trolley and a train; I think it’s worth it for you to stay awake, maybe tomorrow you’ll be a little late.
Morphine, “Early to Bed,” from Like Swimming, 1997. One of the sexiest vocal lines I’ve ever heard. Mark Sandman was peerless.
What walks on two legs, and looks like a goat?
Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, “Yellow Coat,” from I Put a Spell on You, 1957. Answer: “It’s that crazy Screamin’ Jay, in his big yellow coat!” Which, apparently was made out of goatskin, foreskin, tenderized by milk and gin. God, I loved that man.
When you’re following an angel, does it mean you have to throw your body off a building?
They Might Be Giants, “She’s An Angel,” from They Might Be Giants, 1986. Goofy and pretty all at the same time. Lloyd would dance with me at weddings to this one, if only anyone had the nerve to play it.
But remember this city is a funny place, something like a circus or a sewer, but the glory of love might see you through.
Lou Reed, “Coney Island Baby,” from Coney Island Baby, 1976. And we come full circle with Lou. This is a song that begs to be listened to as you lie in bed at night, lights out.
Apologies to everyone who wrote this week asking after me, and were met with either stony silence or fever-induced hysteria. (Okay, okay, I know you were only asking because you wanted something new to read, but at the heart of it, I know you cared, you big creampuffs, you.) To answer your questions, I am basically okay, but sicker than I thought I was. That’ll learn me to be all macha-like. While things are not bad here in PTMYB, they are not particularly good, either. You would think that having resolved the central question of my job security would have made life sweet and calm again, but there is something bad in the air, not evil but mean, taking the hearts and minds of those I love best and just pummelling them senseless, like the Kanker sisters on Ed, Edd & Eddy. Since I don’t want to strike dirge-like notes on a regular basis—if I wanted to inflict that on us, I’d buy us all tickets to Phillip Glass—I will probably lie fallow for a bit until things pick up. Of course, if I find myself infected with irrational exuberance tomorrow, ready to write 5,000-word missives on Why Buttermilk Is Really, Really Neat, that’s my prerogative. Take it to your own blog if you have a problem with it.
Since my lunch hour has been atypically quiet, I decided to shake the torpor by trying a variant form of the 20 Songs meme. (To everyone who has been posting their 20 songs, I promise to link you all properly so that you can get your pings.) I spent the morning playing shuffle with 20 of the cds I brought into work today—believe me, once you see the size of our music collection, you will understand why shuffling through the whole collection would be a misguided act of folly. Because this job gives me the attention span of a gnat, I jotted down the titles of the songs that shuffled up. Then I took a line from each song and put together the paragraphs below, which can be considered either free verse or Dadaist prose. It’s not a story, exactly, but it makes its own little shaggy-dog music-geek sense.
For anyone who would like to figure out where the lyrics come from, yes, I have an answer key. There are 20 songs represented in these two paragraphs. See how many of them you recognize. Bonus points if you know the album from which the song came—and yes, compilations/greatest hits collections count, so there are multiple correct answers on a few of these. Of course, some smartypants out there will try to Google all of these lines, and lord knows I don’t have the energy to stop you, but, uh, please try to refrain. This is a game, not a contest. No one will point and laugh at you. (They’ll wait until you’re out of earshot first. *rimshot*)
Prizes? There could be prizes. There could be baked goods. There could be bread, or cookies, or a pot of jam or curd. Those of you who want bienenstich or croquembouche, you receive extra points for knowing what bienenstich or croquembouche are, but you also lose points for being a smartass.
Without further ado…
Watch out, the world’s behind you, there’s always someone around you who will call, it’s nothing at all. I am calling, yes, I’m calling, just to speak to you, for I know this night will kill me if I can’t be with you. And of course you can’t become if you only say what you would have done, so I missed a million miles of fun. Your emotions are frayed and your nerves are starting to creep; just remember the days, as hard as the time that you keep. You can take all the tea in China, put it in a big brown bag for me. Here is a sunrise; ain’t that enough? True as a clear sky; ain’t that enough? And here are the words for those who dare to speak of this open noisy big brilliant love, which is all I have to give. I can’t write songs about girls anymore: I have to write songs about women, no more “boy meets girl, boy loses girl,” more like “man tries to understand what the hell went wrong!” One minute one, one minute two, one minute up and one minute down, what goes on in your mind, I think that I am upside down. Who broke my heart? You did, you did…
I could lead you, if you’d show me the way; I could always eat you if you get hungry. I packed my bags, went down the hill, left my dependents a-lying still. So this is where he came to hide when he ran from you, in a private detective overcoat and dirty dead man’s shoes? The good life was so elusive;handouts, they got me down; I had to regain my self-respect, so I got into camouflage. I heard you laughing when I left, but don’t you know, you only hurt yourself? I have walked down train tracks, walked down train tracks drunk at 3 a.m.; it’s no big trick, it’s not magic when the trains don’t run till 6. Early to bed so you can wait for three buses, a trolley and a train; I think it’s worth it for you to stay awake, maybe tomorrow you’ll be a little late. What walks on two legs, and looks like a goat? When you’re following an angel, does it mean you have to throw your body off a building? But remember this city is a funny place, something like a circus or a sewer, but the glory of love might see you through.
