Song for a Crappy Tuesday

Aw, Man. Two in a row, Tuesday.

First, "Tuesday before Christmas" made a fool of itself at the office holiday party and then took Christmas Eve off. And now, "Tuesday Between Christmas and New Year's" shows up to work in its brand new, slightly small sweater (just cut the tags off, fold creases remain on the arms, still smells like whatever store it's from - probably the Gap), and sits down at its desk with a loud grunt.

You may want to ask how its Holiday was. Don't. Let TBCaN get its work done. Otherwise, you will become embroiled in an involved story, during which only the most tedious details are highlighted and afterwards, you will know far too much about TBCaN's Mother, her gall stones, and a strange numbness that keeps overtaking TBCaN's pinky and middle fingers.

Best to leave well enough alone.



I like the song "Clocks" by Coldplay, okay? There I said it. I'm tired of hiding.

It's a great pop song, got a good hook. And a piano...I love pianos. (Except in piano based rock with trite on-the-nose lyrics. Don't even TALK to me about The Fray.)

But I kind of hate myself for liking it. I hate myself for liking it because it's used whenever a character in a movie or TV show has some sort of earth shattering revelation, and then starts running towards his or her until-now-unrealized love interest for a soulful confession during a meeting or at the airport.

Now every time hear it, I want to start running. To whom, I don't know. To where, I have no idea. But I will start running. And the heavens will open up, and it will start to rain, but I won't care. I'll be happy, you see? For the first time, knowing what it is that I want and heading for it, full steam and weather be damned, circumstance shall be overthrown. As I run I can do nothing but laugh. And Cry. And Laugh. And Cry...unafraid, so full of joy...I just start running to whatever...that...uh...thing was...I knew what I wanted...just a second ago...what was it that I was running to?

Just, please, if I show up at your office, soaking wet with some lingering expression of absent minded nirvana, don't call security. I can see my own way out.






Influence roundup:

Henri: Peter Sellers, Scientific American, David Lynch
Mr. Rekk: Antonin Artaud, Joy Division, Wonder Showzen
Jerry: Flannery O'Conner, Jim Jarmusch, The Clash, The New Yorker
Ron: Werner Herzog, John Cleese, The Damned
Fremo: John Woo, Alan Moore, Rev. Horton Heat