Archive 1.6.2012 in Normal entries

Slept in until the crack of six forty something. Yes, a song from seventy five years ago was paraphrasing in my head “Hell Hounds in my Bed, Hell Hounds in my bed”. Robert Johnson y’all, sold his soul to the devil so long after his death British rock bands could do covers of his tunes, not exclusively, but you won’t find a Clapton’s greatest hits without Crossroads on it. That wasn’t the exact bargain he made with the devil, but hell, if legend isn’t a bit malleable what the hell good is it? It’s a storyteller’s obligation to tell it as it feels at the moment; Accountants try to tell the same story the same way every time, hopefully not in courtrooms. I like to think of myself as a story teller. I could disabuse myself of the notion, I reckon, if my mornings didn’t start with Hell Hounds in my bed.

It speaks well of my friends here at OD that they left private messages with suggestions of New Music. I can only make the educated assumption it was to spare me some embarrassment. I appreciate the sentiment to no end, the action, however, was hardly necessary. I also spaced out a lot of newer musicians with newer albums that I do like; Norah Jones, Gogol Bordello, OK Go, Asylum Street Spankers, Karen Dalton. Nickel Creek (Oh do not read this as Nickel Back for shits sweet and savory sake), Charlie Hunter.

I liked the suggestions I was given in private, but, perhaps I had misspoke myself, given the wrong impression. For someone who cannot carry a tune vocally, not even with a tune back pack, tune caddy or tune carrying butlers, and who rarely picks up his variety of musical instruments and then almost exclusively improvises themes and does not play existing songs or at least not in any recognizable sense, my head is full of songs from several generations and genres. Songs and jokes. Important information has been crowded out for punch lines and choruses. I could not tell you the value of x in a simple algebraic equation, or where the oil pan is on a slant six engine, I might have forgotten where exactly in Europe Lichtenstein is or the average rainfall in Peru, couldn’t tell you order of Chinese dynasties or succession of French monarchs, might only make it through four of Piaget’s stages of childhood development or the tip of Maslow’s pyramid, or only my favorite of Freud’s psycho-sexual phases, Might only come up with American ex-patriate authors in the twenties and thirties, only remember the Cantos of that fascist poet, can only quote a few amendments to the Constitution, don’t remember why kinship ties are so important to anthropologists, but, I could win a game of stump the band or out old joke a stand-up comic.

What I might have sort of in a kind of off handed way meant by not knowing new music is that new music is might weakest link, but it is a link in my chain. The world’s memory is selective when it comes to jokes. I saw in a recent Playboy or Readers digest a retelling of my favorite Clinton joke. There were a lot of Clinton jokes I didn’t find funny, mostly because if you’ve got material like blow-jobs, infidelity, cigars in the snatch, you damn well better come up with something good. Like Bush Jr. jokes the material is so rich that just repeating what he said or did is not a joke. My favorite Clinton Joke went something like this;

A young Secret Service man greets the president as he gets off of air force one. Bill Clinton is carrying a piglet in his arms. The secret service man says “Excellent Pig, Sir” Clinton says “Thank you; it’s an Arkansas razor back. I got it for Hillary.” The secret Service man says “Excellent Trade, Sir.”

The retelling of the joke had a married man explaining to his bachelor friend that he spent the weekend getting a boat for his kids. “Nice trade,” the bachelor says. Our memory is short. And jokes, for some reasons, often become public domain, even famous comedians signature jokes. There should be some kind of obligation to at least tell the joke well. In the Clinton version it’s not just the punch line that’s funny, it’s the eagerness to please on the part of the secret service man. Otherwise the punch line just sounds like the party saying it is stupid or misunderstanding on purpose. Jokes, like plays or movies, need the characters to have motivation, they need three dimensions. It’s why so often jokes and urban legends begin with the teller’s relationship to the parties (e.g. it happened to my cousin’s friend or my brothers ex, or a co-worker) it’s meant as a short cut to credibility.

Fuck what is my deal? I find myself in these didactic little overstating the obvious entries of late as though y’all have come to sit at poolside of the font of wisdom that is haredawg. Yeah, well, the water and lights have been shut off for debts owed, the pipes are rusty, the hidden lamps bulbless, and the blue tile cracked and grungy at the grouting. The font can spill over a couple of jokes and some tunes though.
… And so the bear picked up the rabbit and wiped his ass with it.

… Girlfriend in a coma, I know, I know, it’s very serious

… “I’m ashamed of you guys. I want you to know my personal check for the full 100 thousand is in that coffin.”

… And a big Turkish shell knocked my ass over tit and when I awoke in my hospital bed Christ I wished I were dead.

… and the last nun said “hey, gross, I have to gargle with that stuff!”

… The faces in the photograph are faded, I can’t believe he looks so much like me, it’s been ten long years since I left for old cork station and I won’t be back until the droving’s done

… Coffee? I asked for piss!

… I don’t need a cure, I don’t need a cure, I don’t need a cure I need a final solution

And I’m spent.