Category: This; And also that

if “the last thing
I want
to do
is
upset you”
does
that mean
“I want to
upset you,
after
I’m done with
all my other
projects?”

Smoke alarm
went off
last night
for no reason.
Hoping I didn’t die
and don’t know it.
Apologies
if next time you see me
I’m a scary ghost.

Meatballs (the movie) caused me to explain slurs to my kids the other day. Looking for a less-than-awful example, I stumbled on this lost memory:
As noted else-blog, I lived in Holland for a stretch while growing up. There I was, getting taller, all surrounded by Dutch stuff.
The American and Dutch kids went (mostly) to different schools, but we lived next door to each other, listening to our older brothers’ copies of “Sheer Heart Attack” by Queen.
Sometimes we played together. For those times when we fought, we created our own slurs. “Dutchies!” we’d call the Dutch kids. Which sounds to me now like a matched-set of collectable mob bosses. Or were we really just saying “Dutch cheese”? That would be an odd thing to call someone, even in anger.
“Cray-shee Amerikahnsies!” they’d call us. And OK — that was fair. We were crazy. Crazy about rock n roll!
Even as we launched our half-hearted catapaults, we couldn’t take it too seriously. How angry could you be listening to a band whose lead guitarist had hair what looked like this?

Brian May kept the peace.

Whole Foods feels like Disneyland
today. I’m at the “Deli” ride. No one curses.
The cheese is free. The clerks have dressed up
like cauliflower and they’re giving out
organic autographs.

A while back, I wrote a little thang called “Shaved My Beard”. And, you know, there was a lot of hullabaloo. I remember, I got a letter from Shaquille O’Neil about it, which really surprised me. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the time.
Shaq hasn’t written in a while. So this weekend, with help from Veronica Vortex, iMovie, and a Flip cam, I revisited that piece, moving picture stylee. Herewith:

Shaved My Beard from Cecil Vortex on Vimeo.

1. First few listens: My heart starts to race. This sounds nice. This sounds really nice…. Passes through quickly to…
2. Deep dive: Can last one month or four. This sound is all my brain wants to receive. Can I play it again? Again? Again? Again. Again. Joy.
3. Sudden burn out: Recoiling. I will not listen to this today. I will, um, listen to something else.
4. Return to obsession: Tentative. It’s been a little while. I can put it back in rotation now. I think. Still sounds great but… something’s not quite right.
5. Time apart: Could be a year. I need my space. We both need our space. I’m talking to you, 1940s Frank Sinatra.
6. The rest of my life: Sounds good again, sure. I mean, it’s great music. But there’s a sadness now too when I play that batch of tunes. The sparkle has evaporated. Or did the cartilage disappear? If only I’d had a little more self-control back in Step 2….

…is the phase I shouted at Ben Kingsley in my last dream last night. Is the phrase I was shouting in my brain when the alarm woke me up this morning.
You don’t understand, Ben Kingsley. I didn’t even know that jerk. I was lying on the grass, OK?. He ran by, playing soccer, and the son of a bitch jackassed my head with his cleats. Alright, so he gave me this pack of exotic tobacco as court-ordered reparations for the assault. I understand how that looks. It looks like I know him. But I don’t know him, OK? I don’t know him, I don’t like him. And I’m certainly not a spy. So stop making complicated plots designed to put me away.
He jackassed my damn head!

The music flows through her head. She does not know how to dance but her thoughts do.