December 19, 2006

Open Letter to Suttonhoo

Let's get this straight ...

This. This place. This place, right here. Is mine.

Ignoring things like the proprietary rights and hardware of Google, it's the only thing in the world that is very truly mine. We play by my rules.


I make it a point to live my life in such a way that every being I come across for more than the briefest of moments has a pretty damn good idea of how I feel about them. You're no different. You know how I feel about you. You know that I think you're smart and sexy and beautiful. You know I want to chew my arm off because you claim you liked me but never acted. You also know that I think you've jacked with the B1 series more than once in our collective lives.

(You probably don't know that two different people have essentially asked if I'm having an affair with you, based on some crazy thing over at the Äcres that I haven't read yet.)

Anne taught me, decades ago, that the human spirit can best be expressed in the words of other musicians copied through love notes. People like Barry Mannilow.

I felt then about that the same way I felt about greeting cards you buy -- that it was a schmaltzy way to express sentiment and that there's nothing like getting a sincere greeting card that has been sent to 5,000 other people (most of whom dot their "i's" by making tiny loops).

I still feel that way today.

But, these are the times of the rat. And in times exactly like these, normal standards are off. Just look at this site for chrissakes.

So with that, I give you the lyrics to ABC's "Poison Arrow"

If I were to say to you, "
Can you keep a secret? "

Would you know just what to do,
Or where to keep it?

Then I say"I love you,"
And foul the situation

"Hey girl I thought
We were the right combination".

Who broke my heart?
You did! You did!
Bow to the target,
Blame Cupid! Cupid!
You think you’re smart ...
Stupid! Stupid!

Shoot that poison arrow to my heart.
Shoot that poison arrow ...
Shoot that poison arrow to my heart.
Shoot that poison arrow ...

No rhythm in cymbals.
No tempo in drums.
Love on arrival -
She comes when she comes.

Right on the target,
But wide of the mark.
What I thought was fire,
Was only the spark.

The sweetest melody,
Is an unheard refrain.
So lower your sights,
Yeah but raise your aim.

Raise your aim.

Who broke my heart?
You did! You did!
Bow to the target
Blame Cupid! Cupid!
You think you’re smart
Stupid! Stupid!

Shoot that poison arrow to my heart.
Shoot that poison arrow ...
Shoot that poison arrow to my heart.
Shoot that poison arrow ...

I thought you loved me,
But it seems you don’t care.
I care enough to know
I can never love you.

Who broke my heart?
You did! You did!
Bow to the target,
Blame cupid!
You think you’re smart.
That’s stupid!

Right from the start,
When you knew we would part.

Actually, I'm just messing with you. I've been listening to a Trevor Horn collection -- he's essentially the Phil Spector of the latter 20th century and his stuff sticks in your brain like peanut butter to a rat trap trigger. I only mean about a quarter of the lyrics -- it's up to you to figure out which quarter.

Or, let me put this another way ...


Leslie's 14 year-old daughter figured it out and she has even less self-confidence than you do. What is your problem here? You're a fricken good mind reader of me ... here, for 30 seconds I'll not think about your eyes or what you'd look like covered in a fine coating of salad oil. Okay.


On second thought, this isn't a open letter, it's closed. If you're not Suttonhoo, you damn well better not have read it. And no, I'm not talking about this posting with anyone except for maybe Perl and whoever else I decide. I am getting goddamn tired of talking about what I do or don't write here.

(It should come as no surprise to anyone that I was born in the Chinese Year of the Rat. I just didn't think it meant things would turn out like this. Goddammit.)

December 16, 2006


Back in the game.

A confused cross of travel, dislike, self-brain washing, the closing of
tower records and odd personal relationship developments have kept me
away from THE task at hand, namely rodentcide.

Tower's closing is not insignificant. In the last week I've bought
something on the order of about 350 CD's -- with maybe 50 or so as
gifts, and the other 300 playing Tetris with the rest of my goods.

I'm on a mad sprint to get everything clean-and-done so I can drive back
to CO for Xmas on the 20th ... stopping at my brother's place along the
way. If I were a betting man (and I am), I'd say that I won't make it.

And I sorta have to, or have to get pretty damn close, because after
that I'll be gone for essentially 6 weeks, with a very short break back
here ... it'll be CO followed almost immediately by the UK. The
potential for rats to run unhindered and slovenly staggers the

Worse, the first person to return to the homestead will likely be the
Birdhead. God save his soul.

I have a raging headache and my teeth are acting suspiciously like
they're going to explode (mostly because I'm probably gnawing the
bejesus out of them), but I've gotta do what I've gotta do, right?


# of rats seen, heard, or traced since last posting: 0

# of Bear Family Records box sets bought in the Tower Frenzy: 3

# of rap CD's bought for US$1.50: 40

# of those that are presents: 37

# that are in Spanish: 3

Music of the moment on 3 CD Shuffle:

"Red Hot + Latin: Silencio = Muerte" Collection
"Del-Fi Girl Groups: Gee Baby Gee" Collection
"DJ Spooky: In Fine Style" Disc 1

I wish I could say it's good to be back. It's not.

Only love from the zillions of women I know, and specifically
Suttonhoo's toffee, gives me faith, hope and keeps me going. Reason
enough to continue to go.

December 01, 2006

I am Lono