I can't sleep. This was not a problem before my hayflick limit went critical. I could just drink six or eight Ski's at work and tough it out.
Not anymore, I just lie awake and itch everywhere. This down-home brain-chemical tweek-fest always has a cheerful musical accompaniment. Small portions of these three songs have been the main offenders since the new year. Songs? I love you so! Why do you hurt me when I'm unable to function?
There is no reason I should like this song as much as I do. I had hippy-dippy teachers who showed us Bless the Beasts and the Children, which was a little too boo hoo for me, even in grade school. I came to this particular tune when I was looking into that old Hoyt Axton Song "Bony Fingers", which was one of those things my mom used to sing when she was trying to annoy me. "Oh look, some local band is calling themselves "Boney Fingers", that reminds me of the woman singing that nasaled-out Junie Carter harmony . . . Oh yeah! Internet'll help!"
Turns out Ms. Armand sang with John Denver. Another strike: my dad used to leave "Rocky Mountain High" on replay all night. One night the record started skipping on "∞writing on the tapestry, of all there is to seeewriting on the tapestry of all there is to seeewriting on the tapestry . . .∞". Getting that shit stuck in your head at age 9 is a total hypnogogic hag-ride. I guess this is a pattern.
Anyway, I have to admit that I came to scoff. Fuck me. Totally wrong. This is a great song. I mean, I kind of had some trouble with those flutes, but the lyrics . . .
My home town has had some meth problems.
By the time the end rolls around to that clapped-out guitar with it's teeth ground down to corn nubbins, that's 4 a.m.
Yes, I'm one of those dick-tips who will bend your ear for the remainder of the party about Carla Bozulich. Ain't No Grave got me at 48 like Mutiny in Heaven got me at 18.
"Jesush Wishkers, fellers, that music makes me feel like tearing up my undermuhpants and struttin' down Main St. to show the preacher".
The offending line in Dragon Lady?
"We were kissing in the cockpit when the airplane wrecked".
That's a shit-faced ballerina on an escalator. That's ruining your opera career cause you can't quit deep-throating popsicles. It loops and loops and loops, "k's and "eck" slotting right into my dendrites and doinging them like a math class boner.
I had never even heard of this until last year when Ian from Bazillion Points tweeted it. There is no reason this song should resonate at all. I mean, it's pretty much "Gloria". But Jesus, the disdain for her slut boyfriend and the way she's kicking herself square in the ass for letting his sticky pecker back into her house is just so precisely IT: DO YOU HEAR ME S***N? I FOUND THE CONDOM WRAPPER(S)! I HAVE NEVER USED "NATURAL LAMB", BECAUSE I WOULD NEVER FUCK A SHEEP'S INTESTINE: UNLIKE YOUR SKEEVY FOREMAN YOU FUCKED IN MY BED, YOU CHEATING METH LIZARD!
Unfortunately the wonderful, liberating, absolutely true lyrics are not what spins around my skull, it's that accursed "Gloria" sounding octave slidey thing.
I'm seriously worried writing this is going to cause them to all hit me at once tonight. Sleep tight.