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bad boys, bad boys

3.26.2013


#187: Happy Trails by Quicksilver Messenger Service

3.25.2013

Happy Trails by Quicksilver Messenger Service (1969)

Favorite Tracks: "Who Do You Love? - Part 1" and "How You Love" and "Mona"

Thoughts: (Pre-Listening) Sooooo. I have never heard of this band (which may prove to be a huge oversight on my music-appreciation part) nor this album. Though now that I think about it, it would be hard to have heard of the album without hearing of the band, right? (I'm sure you can tell another gripping review is headed your way.)

BUT. As we've said before, it's rock and it's from 1969, so how bad could it be? Well, Quicksilver is considered 'psychedelic' and that genre is really hit or miss for me. Yet the track titles for side one of the album is heartening:

1. "Who Do You Love? - Part 1"
2. "When You Love"
3. "Where You Love"
4. "How You Love"
5. "Which Do You Love"
6. "Who Do You Love - Part 2"

Right?  And that album art is fun. Ok, here we go.

(Post-Listening) Well, the guitar work here is GREAT. Really excellent. Some songs got on the obnoxious end of psychedelic for me, namely "Where You Love."

Is This Better Than Bad?: It's great, but to me not as memorable.

The 6-month-old.

3.24.2013

I can't believe Norm's been with us only 4 months. He's gotten so big! Here are some early-on shots of him:







Things We've Learned About Norm:

- He likes to play fetch! But only with mice toys. Nothing else.
- When he's laying on his stomach his front arms curve in to form a little circle.
- If Oz and he are play-fighting, he always like to be on his back so he can kick.
- My dancing scares him. 
- He's a chest sleeper AND a spooner.
- He's more cuddly than Oz but much harder to keep still for hugs or kisses.
- I give him impromtu piggy-back rides. 'Impromptu' in the sense of whenever he decides to jump on my back, whether I'm ready or not.
- He's obsessed with Oz.

Happy birthday, Norm! We love you.

Glen Hansard covering Nick Drake is exactly what my day needs.

3.22.2013



and I was green, greener than the hill
where flowers grew and sun shone still
now I'm darker than the deepest sea
just hand me down, give me a place to be


Disappointments of the Apocalypse

[I'm reading Good Omens for book club this month and this poem reminds me of it.  Also I like yhe theology.]

Once warring factions agreed upon the date
and final form the apocalypse would take,
and whether dogs and cats and certain trees
deserved to sail, and if the dead would come or be left
a forwarding address, then opposing soldiers
met on ravaged plains to shake hands
and postulate the exact shade
of the astral self--some said lavender,
others gray. And physicists rocketed
copies of the decree to paradise
in case God had anything to say,
the silence that followed being taken
for consent, and so citizens
readied for celestial ascent.

Those who hated the idea stayed indoors
till the appointed day. When the moon
clicked over the sun like a black lens
over a white eye, they stepped out
onto porches and balconies to see
the human shapes twist and rise
through violet sky and hear trees uproot
with a sound like enormous zippers
unfastening. And when the last grassblades
filled the air, the lonely vigilantes fell
in empty fields to press their bodies
hard into dirt, hugging their own outlines.

Then the creator peered down from his perch,
as the wind of departing souls tore the hair
of those remaining into wild coronas,
and he mourned for them as a father
for defiant children, and he knew that each
small skull held, if not some vision
of his garden, then its aroma of basil
and tangerine washed over by the rotting sea.
They alone sensed what he'd wanted
as he first struck his shovel into clay
and flung the planets over his shoulder,
or used his thumbnail to cut smiles and frowns
on the first blank faces. Even as the saints
arrived to line before his throne singing
and a wisteria poked its lank blossoms
through the cloudbank at his feet,
he trained his gaze on the deflating globe
where the last spreadeagled Xs clung like insects,
then vanished in puffs of luminous smoke,

which traveled a long way to sting his nostrils,
the journey lasting more than ten lifetimes.
A mauve vine corkscrewed up from the deep
oblivion, carrying the singed fume
of things beautiful, noble, and wrong.



- Mary Karr, from The Devil's Tour (x)


middle age

3.13.2013


Many of my friends are alone
and know too much to be happy
though they still want to dive
to the bottom of the green ocean
and bring back a gold coin
in their hand. A woman I know wakes
in the late evening and talks
to her late husband,
the windows blank photographs.
On the porch, my brother,
hands in pockets,
stares at the flowing stream.
What's wrong? Nothing.
The cows stand
in their own slow afternoons.
The horses gather
wild rose hips in the sun
the way I long for someone
long ago. What was it like?
The door opening
and no one on the other side.



- Jason Shinder, Stupid Hope. (x)

sharing is caring

3.06.2013


song of the day.

3.01.2013



why don't we share our solitude?
nothing is pure anymore but solitude