To make up for the weirdness

As my friend The Music Lover and I just discussed, what was up with Sleigh Bells on Saturday Night Live last night? The voice of singer, Alexis Krauss, seemed totally lost in the mix, not just on "Comeback Kid" but for the second song performed as well.

What gives? If the sound quality was off in the first set, you'd think they could have at least fixed it in the second. But maybe that was intentional?

I mean, Sleigh Bills is a quirky outfit, music-wise--they do a lot with "noise" and distortion in their sound. I love it, but I kind of wonder what's the point of them performing live if you can't hear the singer or understand even a minimal amount of what she's singing.

Then again, in the video above, one of the guys in the band is wearing a Nirvana t-shirt. Nirvana. Now there's a group known for sound distortion and lyrical and vocal unintelligibility.

So, again, maybe it was intentional and that Nirvana t-shirt is speaking, erm, volumes, to us.

A funny thing happened on the way to the Swedish bombshell

I stumbled across this CD while browsing the CD bins at the Attic, one of Pittsburgh's finer vintage vinyl and CD shops. (OK, it's situated in inner-city-suburban Millvale, but who's counting?)

The Gaylords. And there's so many Gaylords they have not only their own section in the CD bin but enough materials to release a two-CD set!

Serves me right for looking for Ann-Margret records in the first place.

Dance away

Admittedly, I went a bit crazy with the Roxy Music homage this week--but, obviously, from the video above, I haven't stopped just yet. I should have definitely included "Dance Away," the big hit from their 1979 release, Manifesto, in my top ten moments in Rox-'n'-Roll history--a gorgeous pop tune with a haunting sound and poignant lyrics, such as--

It's funny how I could never cry/
Until that night when you passed by/
Hand in hand with another guy/
You're dressed to kill/
And guess who's dying?

Loneliness is a crowded room/
Full of open hearts that turn to stone/
All together all alone

There was I many times a fool/
I hope and pray--but not too much/
Out of reach is out of touch/
All the way is far enough

Yes, it's very romantic, maybe even a tad too too, but "Dance Away" is a precious little gem of an unheralded pop song, at least in my opining. Like I said about the discofied remix of "Angel Eyes," it might represent something of the beginning of the end for Ye Olde Roxy Music and the birth of NuRoxy--and you'd be perfectly fine in lamenting that, depending on your taste in such musical matters. NuRoxy was decidedly not Old Roxy, and while NuRoxy and Bryan Ferry solo transitioned successfully to a new, more glamorous era, some spark, some quaintness, some vitality of Old Roxy might have been lost in the metamorphosis. The caterpillar became a gorgeous butterfly, but the caterpillar itself was quite beautiful in its own right.

But what's past is past. It's no longer 1979. Or so I keep reminding myself.

Anyway, maybe this past week, Valentine's week, predisposed me to Roxy memories, placing me in a romantic, wistful, slightly mournful frame. For there were sharp reminders this week, little pricks (but not those kind of pricks) to my tender consciousness, that I am single again.

Normally, I do not necessarily mind this. I have been single before and, in fact, have spent most of my adolescent and adult lives being single. I do like it, maybe even prefer it at times, as it affords me a freedom that I would often rather have than be settled in with someone or some situation that limits or restricts me.

Let's be clear here: I'm not talking about having limitless sexual freedom. While I'm no Promise Ring-tonedeaf virgin, sex for me has primarily been about the expression of love, affection, communion, and even creativity, than it's ever been about a relentless physical need, frustration, conquest, challenge, goal, habit, or hobby. I find most people's expression of unlimited sexual freedom to be . . . actually rather limited. Personally, I know I do better being with someone I like, love, and trust--or at the very least have some sort of mental or personal connection with, not just a physical attraction to. Only then do I feel free.

Although every need has its place, its need to be met, and sometimes those needs need to be met sooner rather than later, love or no love, trust aside, caution to the wind, one way or another.

Ahem and amen.

I think what's really more important to me is the freedom to think, feel, explore, and be myself. I don't believe I'm that out there or radical in my thinking, constantly pushing toward the horizon and beyond to some personal Valhalla. No, I inhabit a rather more conventional world, some middle sphere, Swedish Third Way, intersex textuality (figuratively speaking) between the conventional and the radical, the traditional and the libertine. I'm not at home in either extreme climate, which makes it very difficult to find the right level of temperature in the either/or thermostat of our binary mindset.

And I've never found--or never found for long enough--someone else who occupies that same plane. Or maybe I just didn't stay still long enough to realize what I might have found.

So why suddenly all this candy-hearts-and-sad-lovesongs emotion? Well, it was a week, a week of trying to explain in French that I was "célibataire" (which means both single and celibate), of old boyfriends suddenly reappearing out of the mists of time, of underscored frustrations in life and work, and of course, Roxy Music.

Normally, this would get to me, but maybe only briefly and not so acutely. What's different now is that I'm 50 and single, I'm 50 and most of my friends live elsewhere, and I'm 50 and get more of my social interaction with my contemporaries online rather than in person. All very modern, I suppose, but not always a satisfying replacement for the real thing.

What's different at 50 is that I find myself to be a more relationship-oriented person yet realize that I am a person one who has rarely been in a relationship over the last 50 years.


* * *

Editor's note: This posting was originally much longer. I've clipped it here and hope to rework the other part into future postings. Patience . . .

Slave to Roxy

Well, I can't just do one post about Bryan Ferry and walk away, as if that's all I have to say. No. Roxy Music has been part of my musical history since at least the mid-'70s.

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #1: "Love Is the Drug"

The first Roxy song I ever remember hearing was "Love Is the Drug" on radio, circa the mid-1970s in North Carolina. It wasn't a huge hit in the U.S., but it is a totally unforgettable song.



To me, Rod Stewart owes scads to Roxy Music: "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" seems like a mere sloppy disco reworking of this tune.

I have no idea what's up with the eye patch and the wardrobe (dear BF looks like he's a member of the Women's Air Corps in those epaulets and that cinched, high-waisted pants), but Bryan Ferry was always about style. Not necessarily good style in this case, but style of some sort.

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #2: "Tokyo Joe"



"Toyko Joe" was a 1977 or so solo effort by Bryan Ferry, after Roxy's first break (up). I remember hearing this on the BBC World Service Top 20 in 1977 or so--a fantastic year for popular music, with punk and disco at their peaks. "Tokyo Joe" to me sounds like it's trying to do a bit of both--a strong, funky baseline and beneath squirrelly vocals and lyrics. Vaguely reminding me of "Miss You" by the Rolling Stones. Or not

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #3: "Virginia Plain"



Early Roxy and "Virginia Plain," which I discovered after hearing Bryan Ferry solo in the '70s but before I was exposed to all the lush New Romanticism that came later, both in group and solo form. I really didn't (and still don't) know much about early Roxy, but two things led me to the discovery of their life before 1975.

One being reading an interview with Kate Bush in which she listed "early Roxy" as music she had enjoyed when she was younger--the stress being on "early" as opposed to "contemporary" (early '80s), after they'd gone all lush-life.

Two being hearing a re-release of "Virginia Plain" on the BBC sometime in the late '70s. Although Roxy was considered something of a glam act in 1972, there are elements here--the quirky vocals, the industrial sounds, the bleating horns--that make me think of punk. But what do I know?

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #4 and #5: "Angel Eyes"--both versions

Version #1 was featured on the album Manifesto, which I bought on vinyl my senior year of high school. I'm sure I was the only kid at Swansboro H.S. that owned that album--along with the complete back catalog of ABBA and Donna Summer, as well as some Blondie, the Stranglers, and Ian Dury and the Blockheads, to name a few.

Here's version 1 (no video), a much more rock-and-roll affair--



And here's version #2, a much glossier rendez-vous, ridiculously so, but absolutely gorgeous in all its discofied, flamboyant glamour--



I don't know what they were thinking when they recorded this version and made this video--it seems like the complete antithesis of early Roxy and probably represents something of the beginning of the end, at least if you loved old Roxy and hated the nu, improved version.

Still the video does seem like the coming together of so much Roxy style, so many Roxy album photos, all of which featured the top glamour-girls of the era, such as Jerry Hall and Amanda Lear ("girls" of the era, I should say, if the stories are true about Amanda Lear). In that sense, they were being consistent style-wise, but musically, they were already moving on to New Romanticism.

The gods help me, I was once in love with a man who wore a pastel lavender suit in a music video.

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #6: "Jealous Guy"



This, I believe, was done as a tribute to John Lennon, after his death in 1981. The NuRoxy visual style is in full force, the sound slicker, Bryan Ferry's Joe Crocker imitation is unfaltering, and despite the great hair, you know it's all going to end badly--he'll be looking like an old drunken Tyne & Wear type by the time he's fifty. Although, truth be told, he's well past that now and still looks fab. Dammit, I'm just a "jealous guy" myself.

But let's not overthink it: This is a lovely tribute to the late John Lennon.

Great moments in my personal Roxy Music history #7, #8, #9, #10, and beyond? Hey, well, just check out any of the tracks from Avalon, plus ones from his mid-'80s solo albums, Bȇte Noire and Boys and Girls.

If forced to get specific, then I'd readily recommend listening to "Slave to Love" and imagine it playing in the background of a scene from the British soap, EastEnders, as the characters Simon, Cindy, Sharon, and Ian double-date--only Sharon and Ian don't realize that their respective partners, Simon and Cindy, are lovesick for each other.

Kinda a perfect pop culture moment--and much more personal and emotional than the actual video for "Slave to Love," appearing below.



Not EastEnders, alas. This is strictly Dynasty.

Pity, that.

England's ruse

Oddly, while scoping out other Glen Campbell songs on YouTube,--namely, "Rhinestone Cowboy," one I never really liked at the time or even now--I was re-introduced to this early '80s, New Romantic jewel--"Avalon" by Roxy Music.

I've always loved this song (the whole album in fact) and the mood it evokes: One of romance, wistfulness, the blush of love, and heart-aching, dewy beauty of it all. I remember once reading that Avalon (the album) was the Great Dorm Room Make-Out Album of 1982, and having enjoyed dorm life in the early '80s, well, I can testify--but will never kiss and tell.

I have fond memories of the videos from the album, especially the one above, which received pretty decent rotation on early MTV, if I recall correctly. There was just something about that era that made Britain seem incredibly cool, suave, lovely, and stylish. A place of beauty and sophistication, where love with a slick-haired crooner in a white dinner jacket was simply a dance away. Videos like this certainly contributed to that impression, at least in my easily impressed psyche.

I wouldn't first visit England until 1993, then again in 2005, well past the New Romantic era, and well, let's just say that while I enjoyed my time there, it was no Roxy Music video circa 1982. (A Benny Hill video from 1982? Well, that's another matter for another post . . .)

But then again, a Roxy Music video from 1982 isn't the same Roxy Music video in 2012.

By that I mean, perceptions change. What seemed amazing, beautiful, cultured, and incredibly romantic in its day, now just looks like any ol' perfume advert.

So which came first, Roxy Music's neo-samba pretensions or Dior's 30-second elegant lifestyle commercials trying to get you to, oh by the way, buy a few liters of some perfume? Classic poulet vs. oeuf, that.

Anyway, I had a mad crush on Bryan Ferry for ages, and he's still cranking out the occasional romantic, melancholy cocktail of style and preciousness. I've even bought a few of them over the years.

But while I miss that era--the innocence, the charm, the style, the possibilities, and, god yes, my youth--watching this video, listening to this song, makes me wonder . . . was it all just a big fat stripey marketing lie? Nothing more than the selling of a lifestyle, the telling of tall, beautiful tales about "hauntingly beautiful" but vacant supermodels, along with the vending of a lot of vinyl, hair gel, cars, and clothes?

It sure looks that way, at least from the vantage of 2012.

I still love you, Roxy. I still swoon to you, Avalon. You were always how I wanted to see myself, aspired to be. Cool Britannia.

But maybe I'm more that kid on the couch in a small, suburban tract house, nestled among his sibs and parents, watching performances of "Wichita Lineman" on The Glen Campbell Good-Time Hour or "Harper Valley P.T.A." on The Porter Wagoner Show. Or was. And might wish to be again some day, if only for a moment.

Nevertheless, despite the desire to return to a less crazy, more hazy-golden era, I would pay hard cash to get "Rhinestone Cowboy" unstuck from my head right now.

* * *

Oh, who am I kidding. I would *so* tell if Bryan Ferry had ever been involved in the kissing.

Southern livin'

As anyone who knows me is well aware, I am no fan of country music. In fact, I hate it, loathe it, detest it, abhor it--and besmirch it every chance I get.

I don't really listen to much of it either. (Ha!) But, naturally, that's never stopped me from having an opinion to share . . .

For me, contemporary country is like a lot of contemporary pop music. Despite the aw-shucks, shit-kicker, country-road cred it claims to have, the whole meshugas seems like a corporate job, music by committee, and rapidly becoming a parody of itself. Blue jeans, beer, "mah wuhman" being the one and only. "Red Solo Cup," the "Margaritaville" of the tailgatin' and suburban lawn-mowin' set. All that crap that makes America grate (sic).

Maybe if it all had more of a connection to the life of gay, 50-year-old, I'd get interested. But then I don't feel moved (to dance or otherwise) by any song performed by Lady Gaga or other performers that are marketed to my tribe. (Although, admittedly, "Poker Face" was kind of catchy.) It's even why I've gone off the once pure pop and stylish fun of Kylie Minogue, something I thought I would never do. But if your handlers are going to have you do nothing but bleat to the beat of disco lady-boy dance music instead of belting out adult-oriented pop, let alone songs that mean something to you personally, then, well, I can't be arsed to listen.

*Cough* Where were we?

Ah, yes . . . despite the repulsion toward I feel toward contemporary country music, I do listen to some from today (mostly alt-country stuff like Ryan Adams, Roseanne Cash, Shelby Lynne, and My Morning Jacket, to name less than a handful) and occasionally enjoy some from yesterday.

A case in point: Glen Campbell's "Wichita Lineman."

Mr. Campbell was featured in a profile on CBS News Sunday Morning earlier today. He now has Alzheimer's but, nevertheless, is performing on stage in a farewell tour with three of his children and even has recorded a new album, Ghost on the Canvas. According to the reporter on CBS Sunday Morning, this will, obviously, be his last tour and his last album of new material. As his daughter and wife noted, he forgets things, loses track in his daily life and on stage, yet still can perform from memory and with the aid of a teleprompter.


It was painful for me to watch the interview, especially at moments when his wife was discussing his Alzheimer's with him, a disease that he does not realize that he has. "What is it that we have?" he asked his wife. "You have Alzheimer's," she replied. "Well, I don't feel like I have it."

Oh. So early Alzheimer's. Dear Campbell Family: Hang on tight for when things move to middle or late stage Alzheimer's.

Because I've been there, done that. I've watched two family members fade away from Alzheimer's, the most recent one being my father, who died almost five years ago. That's quite incredible to me--that one can pass away from "memory loss" (although, in reality, Alzheimer's is so much more) and that my Dad's been dead for a long five years.

Anyway, on the plus side of the pain, the profile reminded me of listening along with my Dad and brothers to Glen Campbell records in the late '60s and early '70s and watching the Glen Campbell Good-Time Hour on TV with them, my Mom, and sister. Incredibly, that was 40 years back in time. While it feels like it was longer ago than just a moment, it doesn't feel that long ago.

But before I go all Our Town on you in this rambling little posting, let's just say a few things--

I miss my Dad, and I guess I always will. I didn't always get along with him, but there was nothing that tragic or complicated in our relationship: We just both had strong personalities and senses of self. (Who me?) I wish I had been a little more forgiving of that, and I wish he had been a little more relaxed. Otherwise, he loved me unconditionally; provided me with a home, creature comforts, and an education; and he and my Mom gave us security, safety, and honesty, things that are all-too-lacking in the present day. But, hey, I at least enjoyed them once. I know what they're like, how it's supposed to be. And I know enough not to settle for less.

Apparently, I don't hate all country music after all. I have fond memories of Glen Campbell along with a lot of other "classic" country-pop from back in the day. "Rose Garden" by Lynn Anderson. "Harper Valley, P.T.A." by Jeannie C. Riley. "Ode to Billy Joe" by Bobbie Gentry. Jim Reeves and Faron Young. Porter Wagoner and Johnny Cash. It wasn't so bad then, after all. In fact, a lot of it was quite good, catchy, satisfying pop.

My Southern roots are showing. I often forget about them these days, living on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon Line, or get bummed out over them, especially seeing how some Southerners behave in the name of God, religion, America, and "rightness." But there's more to the tale: The music, the food, the literature, the landscape, the humor, the language, and, yes, even the people. Despite some cheap creeps and flint-souled folk, there are a quite a wealth of people just being people, just being themselves, and doing the best they can in the system and society in which they live.

But good lord, if I hear "Red Solo Cup" or "Margaritaville" one more time, y'all are on your own. Hell, even The Beverly Hillbillies got the joke better than contemporary country.

Une fleur

Only a fan video for this one, "Une fleur," by Québécoise chanteuse, Stéphanie LaPointe. I'm not quite sure of the lyrics, but the mood, the vibe, seems perfect for this spring-like day in February in Pittsburgh, where it's brilliantly sunny (that in itself a spring-time miracle) with temps aiming toward 50 F/10 C.

I even had a friend in Central Pennsylvania report that she saw crocuses (crocii?) in her yard this week. That's about a month to 6 weeks too early, if you ask me. We normally wouldn't see them in Southwestern Pennsylvania until maybe mid- to late March, being that spring really doesn't get going here until April.

But this has been an odd year to say the least, weather-wise at least. And I have the "spring" allergies and non-stop head colds to prove it.

* * *

By the way, "Une fleur" was, I believe, written by Québécois hipster-dandy-musicien Pierre LaPointe (no relation as far as I know), who is one of those performers I feel I am supposed to like but really feel quite "Gallic shrug" about.

Nevertheless, here's a taste of Pierre, one that has absolutely nothing to do with spring except perhaps in terms of color and spirit.



And the moral of the story is that, Pierre LaPointe notwithstanding, I wish it were spring already and that I were in Montréal.

A good heart

Ah, heck, let's give Feargal Sharkey a shout-out today as well. A bit more uplifting than my downbeat take on David Sylvian.

"My expectations may be high/I blame it on my youth . . ."

Or turning 50. Take your pick.

We're not New Wave, We're New Romantic

Funny how the past revisits your life every now and again, stealing its way into your present day, gently, sensitively, surreptitiously.

Recently, I stumbled across David Sylvian's Voice of the Beehive album (well, the CD version of it at least) at a local record shop (well, CD resale shop at least). An album almost forgotten to me but one that I listened to repeatedly for a period of time in the late '80s, when it was originally released.

I was living in Washington, D.C., then but traveling some. I think I had a cassette of this album with me when I went to Australia in September-October 1987. Or maybe not. I definitely remember sharing my Feargal Sharkey cassette with a guy on a plane to Melbourne sometime around then. Maybe I did the same with David Sylvian, too.

Anyway, even though I sometimes, oftentimes, remember my Washington days with a certain bitterness and discomfort, I did enjoy the music, art, and culture I was exposed to then. I don't think it was a great town to be in to be tuned in, at least not in the '80s and at least not without a lot of money and an East Coast pedigree. Maybe there is no town like that, at least when you're in your twenties, and you're ready for your life to begin, not realizing that it already has. It's just another capitalist media fantasy, handed down, layered on, built up with the goal of increasing your dis-ease and making you want, strive, need, buy, break, die, then want, strive, and need, again and again.

But the times I visited New York then, often just going up for the day on the train, too cheap or too broke to stay overnight (a missed opportunity, no doubt), it did seem to be the place, at least in the mid- to late-'80s. Edgy, seedy, dangerous, forward, cool, powerful. Most definitely unlike Washington, where everyone seemed to be focused on an upper-middle-class sense of responsible cool and measured power of a different sort. Trenchcoats and 401Ks and liabilities and political maneuvering--and that was just among the clerk-typists.

If I had to do it all again, I'd probably do it all again, but I'd probably do it all again in New York or London. Or, heck, Melbourne. I'm not sure I would have been any more comfortable in my own skin there and then, but I think it would have been more interesting.

Having said that, I don't regret the times or the time in Washington. I just wish I'd done more with it, been less afraid, taken more risks, accepted more opportunities, and had more fun.

And I'm still feeling that way about my life today.

* * *

So one little David Sylvian album brought that all about.

It reminded me of then, and it reminded me of now, and it reminded me to feel: Moody, pensive, relaxed, luxuriant, sad, bittersweet. Something.

When was the last time I did that? Why don't I do it more often? Did I lose all feeling in my heart and my head after age 30? I can remember in my 20s having a glass of wine, listening to Nina Simone, sinking into the moment, shedding a tear or a giggle, enjoying my own company, and calling it a wonderful night.

And now . . . now it's TV and Twitter and Facebook and phone calls and trying to keep the stereo down so as not to disturb the neighbors (ironic, that), and staring out at the same street day after day, night after night, expecting it to look different each time. And not feeling anything at all, except . . .

The need for change is in my system again. It's been there for a while, and I've been too busy and dissatisfied with the day-to-day to notice it much. Maybe it's just the head cold and the cold medicine talking, but this year, or the next, but please God, not the one after, a change for the better will occur.

I turned 50 last fall, and I barely had time to notice it, so busy was I. But I feel it now. I'm still here. I'm still alive. And I want something more, something different, before it's too late. Or I simply forget to feel again.

One of my gayer moments

Ladies and germs, the new Madonna video for "Give Me All Your Luvin'," featuring Nicki Minaj and M.I.A.

Hmmm, what to say? I actually like the song--I mean, I'd even buy it, not just try to steal an "advanced download" of it from some murky corner of the internet. It's 3 minutes and 22 seconds of happy fun, cheekiness, and effervescence. Good show, Madonna.

However, I do tend to loathe the appearance of teenspeak in any contemporary song. "Luvin'"? Really, Madonna? Is Lourdes writing your lyrics now?

And while this is about as much Nicki Minaj as I can handle (love the look, love the sound, but can't imagine listening to a whole album of her), the M.I.A. portion is kind of a total waste of her abilities, other than to say, "Hey, look! I got another hip young singer to appear on my record! It's M.I.A.! 2010's Justin Timberlake!"

I am disappointed, though, that M.I.A. doesn't get to pop a cap in the ass of one of the football players.

I also think musically Madonna's slightly sucking the blood out of the Robyn back catalog. This is like a glam, what-me-worry? version of "Indestructible." Not a bad thing, but let's give credit where credit is due.

And the video? Well, we have Dick Tracey, we have the Kylie show (the first time that perhaps Madonna has copied Kylie rather than the other way around, ha), and we have an episode of Glee--or maybe even One Life to Live. Seriously, it's Starr-X'ed Lovers: The Musical. Or maybe even Prom Night.

So . . .

Was it worth it? Well, yes, actually. A nice song "event" in an American era that, at least for me, doesn't have many moments that make you want to scan the radio dial so that you can sing into the rearview mirror while driving down life's highway.

Will I buy it legally? Perhaps. Probably yes, in fact.

But for $0.99, not $1.29. I mean, come on, it's no Muppets' version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." I have standards, you know. Which means I am cheap, and if I can get it for $0.99 on Amazon, I will.

I'm probably not giving ol' Madge enough credit, though. She's still workin' it, what, nearly 30 years after her debut. Impressive. In both staying power and musical ability. Who would have thought we would go from the Madonna of "Burning Up" and "Dress You Up" to the Madonna of today?

It is just difficult sometimes to separate Madonna the Talented Artist from Madonna the Attention-Seeking Fascist Fame-Monger circa 1985 to 1995 or so.

Sorry, Madonna, I'll try harder. You really do continue to put out some amazingly good pop art.

While the souped-up version of this song isn't my favorite take (I like the original, slower version best), the video to me represents some of her finer work. So in your face and so . . . life's a bitch and so am I. But with good reason and a purpose.

The "We the People"'s car

Spotted in Shadyside, Pittsburgh, today, a Beetle that's not afraid to wear its politics on its shell.

Look closely: We have the obvious "Te(a) Party" license plate, but also the "life member" (so amusing) of the National Rifle Association placard holder, and the "Jesus" and United States Marine Corps decals. All stuck to the back on the hippiest rendition possible of the current Bug model (i.e., those daisy light covers).

When I posted this on Facebook earlier today (with my own damn VIN showing--stupid! stupid! stupid! Once again God punishes me for my snarkiness), one friend commented that the plate should actually read "ASSHOLE." Fair enough.

Another thought that this model of the Beetle had no doubt replaced the bud vase with a gun post.

Me, I am sure the cigarette lighter is being used to charge up the driver's taser.

Really, there's so much going on, and so little energy in my death-rattled body (the head cold from hell continues) to convey it all, especially without an extended diatribe on Teabag Nation. And the less attention that group gets the better.

But really, Jesus and the NRA? The Tea Party and the USMC (kind of a major federal, taxpayer-funded initiative, that)? Dear driver, how in the name of Fahrvergnügen do you keep all those obstacles in your head without spinning out of control and crashing into the Jersey wall of Reality?

No worries. It's more of a rhetorical question. But I do find myself on the verge of a four-stroke engine of a mental brakedown (ahem) trying to comprehend it all.

Separated at birth II

Newt Gingrich and the Stay Puft Marshallow Man

* * *

Damn. I just realized Jon Stewart & Company made this same comparison a few weeks ago. Oh well. If you're gonna inadvertently copy, copy from the best. And, Newt, let's just say that Stay Puft is not the look you should be copying . . .

Separated at birth

Colleen Dewhurst and Ozzy Osbourne