“Some mornings it just doesn't seem worth it to gnaw through the leather straps.” - Emo Philips
So I'm sort of blue today, the first day of the new year, and I'm trying to cheer myself up. One thing that helps is reflecting upon all the wonderful people that stop by here. Thanks everybody, I love you all to varying degrees.
Another thing that helps is playing Rancid's “Olympia Wa.” at concert volume in my headphones. Their album “And Out Come the Wolves” is an immensely enjoyable CD if you can tolerate a ten-years-too-late punk band, which I certainly can.
Part of the reason I think I'm skirting the edges of sadness is that eleven years ago today I met one of the great loves of my life, Nancy, in Sweeney's Saloon in Saint Paul. She was there with a girlfriend; I went over and cranked out some line or another and got to talking with the brace of them. I recall thinking at the time that Nancy looked like a dentist's wife, whatever that means. I think it was compliment. Anyway, Nancy and I eventually started going out after I found out the following things about her:
She was from Wisconsin.
She drank beer and chewed tobacco.
She was better-traveled than I was.
She was gorgeous, over 18 and had a great body.
She liked me.
We loved with a love that was more than a love, won't go into it here, but it was a pretty intense relationship. Unfortunately I lost track of her since. It would be fun to get together and gab and compare notes etc. etc. Sigh. They don't make 'em like that anymore. I have lots of cute stories, shopping for vibrators in Montreal, joining the Three Foot High Club on the train to Edinburgh, that sort of thing. Perhaps I'll reel them out another time and pretend they happened to someone else.
Okay, now I'm listening to “She Sells Sanctuary” by the Cult. Hah. I recall being in a bar in Amsterdam at closing (!) and having the owner, who I knew slightly, ask me to pick out some music that would make the lingering customers get the hell out. I picked “She Sells Sanctuary”, set the stereo to “Deafen,” and spun 'er up. The music had been some Yanni-like shit before that. You should have seen herd of whatever the local equivalent of Republicans was scramble for the door. Mission accomplished.
This is – maybe – the last song I list that I'm listening to, but it's “1952 Vincent Black Lightning” by Richard Thompson, the guy who wrote it. It's a ballad, and it's a man's ballad, dammit. It's about motorcycles, redheads, and dying tragically. “Said James, 'In my opinion there's nothing in this world / Beats a '52 Vincent and a red-headed girl.'” You tell 'em, Richard. And jeebus, he wails on that 12-string.
There. Much better. I feel good again. See, that wasn't so bad, was it? I'm keeping the title though, because a) I like it a lot, and b) it's sort of a cynical response to all the “I'm going to read The Remembrance of Things Past and lose 45 pounds this year just you watch” blog entries that seem to have popped up like mushrooms today. They don't really say they're going to read Proust, but the resolutions that are listed are probably equally as likely.
Yikes. Better to listen to more Rancid. I really do support my friends in their resolutions, it's just a cranky day is all. But still, happy new year everyone. And avoid Proust as you would the plague, trust me.