On a Carmine Unaware
We all love misheard lyrics. But what's better than misheard lyrics is videos that spell them out for you. And I found a ton of them on You Tube.
My sister and I used to get drunk and make up lyrics to this song. Because really, who the hell knows what he was saying? It was more fun to make our own shit up than to find out what the lyrics really are. Anyone who ever wondered what Eddie Vedder was slurring in Yellow Ledbetter will appreciate this.
Here's a couple more:
Fallbout Boy - This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race
Rammstein - The Misheard Lyrics
Red Hot Chili Peppers - By The Way
Tears For Fears - Sowing the Seeds of Love
Metallica - For Whom The Bell Tolls
Enjoy!
Hell, I don't even want breakfast in bed. I've just been conditioned to think that's what I want. I was just happy to wake up today and see a card propped up by my computer. My kids may not have any money to buy me a present on their own, but they took the time to walk to the store to get me a nice card. That's all it takes. Not gifts, not flowers, not pancakes. Just a little thoughtfulness. 
She taught me how to read before I started kindergarten. She encouraged me when I read the newspaper instead of picture books. She read to me, read with me, and took me to the library every weekend so I bring home a fresh haul of books. 
Now, how does one go about eating a chocolate Jesus? With the chocolate bunnies, you generally eat the ears first. So that's what I did. I ate Jesus's ears. The next logical step would be the tail. But of course, Jesus doesn't have a tail. So I started chomping on his lower half. And the lapsed Catholic in me heard the words in my head:
I love Pink Floyd. My relationship with that band goes way back. I mean, I was seven years old when I first heard Careful With That Axe, Eugene. And all these years later, I'm still listening. My 14 year old son is listening. My 68 year old mother listens obsessively. I guess PF is somewhat of a family tradition. So I feel comfortable in sitting here explaining to you why The Wall is overrated. I'm not some PF play hata throwing rocks at Roger Waters. I'm a fan who can admit when an album just over reaches.
It was when I finally saw the movie version of Waters' nightmare that I started to go from "what a work of genius" to "what a load of narcissistic crap." My god. Two hours of sitting through someone else's bad acid trip. That's what the movie was. I had enough of my own, thank you, without watching someone else have the freak out of their life. Not even the wretched depression of 
I don't think we saw much of the parade. Mostly we walked around the streets acting like idiots until lunch time, when we parked ourselves inside the Steak & Brew, a restaurant that gave out free beer with meals. Those of us who were only 17 showed fake ID, which the waitress barely glanced at. We stayed for a couple of hours, drinking and laughing, until the waitress said if we weren't going to order more food, we should leave. So we did.
We talked about life, too, laying on that rock in the park as the sun started to disappear and the day turned cold. We guessed what our futures would be like. We wondered how long our friendship would hold. We made plans, laughed at our own dreams of fame and fortune and stayed on that rock until our fingers and ears went numb from the cold. It was as if we knew that we were experiencing one of our last great days together. We hung onto it for as long as we could, and then we made an impossible promise to each other. We promised that no matter where life took us, no matter how far we roamed, we would come back to that very rock on St. Patrick's Day in the year 2000. Twenty years. We'd share our stories, show off pictures of our families, give each other autographed books and albums, since we were all destined to be famous authors or musicians. And then we headed for home.
Unfortunately, it was not to a duel. I always wanted to be challenged to a duel. It's such a gentlemanly way of settling an argument. Sure, it usually ends with someone's death, but at least he dies a gentleman's death. 
"I Woke Up in Love this Morning"
BH: dude. rapper's delight is made of win.
Shes juicy and shes trouble
Even after being picked up by a neighbor, a friend of my aunt's, a co-worker of my father's and a teacher, I still didn't give it up. Lecture on top of lecture did nothing for me. This was the 70's. We were fun-loving, caution-to-the-wind, free spirited kind of people! Read: stupid. There wasn't a whole lot of abductions in the news back then, and most scary hitcher stories had to do with ghosts rather than serial killers. And, being the naive, fantasizing young teenage girl I was, I always held out hope that some hot guy in an old Chevelle (with mag wheels, of course) would pick me up and we'd fall madly in love and drive off into the sunset and I'd call my parents from some romantic beach in Florida to tell them I wasn't ever coming home (but please send my stuff, thanks).
Then he made this weird face. I was a good little girl. I had no idea what an "O" face was. Had I known, I would have realized that the guy was about ten seconds away from a money shot on his steering wheel. But not knowing exactly what was going on, I started to giggle. I mean, he looked really funny. Sitting there with this twitchy, spastic look on his face while furiously stroking his little dick. My one friend leaned over toward the front to see what I was laughing at. When she saw what the guy was doing - and the look on his face - she gasped and then started laughing. 
Believe it or not, hitch hiking was not my stupidest car trick. That belongs to skitching (well, maybe it belongs to drunk driving, but we're not going to get into the more sordid aspects of my early adult years yet).
a bottle of gin and a large bottle of sleeping pills and maybe stabbing a few people to death at a Lover's Lane before offing themselves in their ex wife's garage. 
The years in between those were some of the best of my life. Years filled with slacking, partying, clubbing, smoking, drinking, video game playing, road tripping, partying, slacking, drinking, slacking....you get the picture. It was the early part of the decade - say from high school graduation until I was about 24 - that formed the bulk of what we will refer to as Those Years. You can pack a lot of baggage into those words. Those Years.
a punk rock band t-shirt, nearly ripped to shreds and spiked up hair and some kind of stomping boots. I didn't know whether I wanted to be punk or new wave. I just knew that there was something about this music that grabbed me by the balls (you know what I mean) and made me move. It wasn't all happy music; a lot of it was pretty dark and disturbing. But the general feel of the music, the synthesized melodies, the way it made you bounce your head and your feet....it made me feel good to be alive. Standing in the middle of the club, the ground shaking, the beats pounding, the shots of 151 rum making their way through my system, everyone waving their hands in the air like they just didn't care - it was a place I wanted to stay for as long as possible. We closed that club down every night it was open. First to come, last to leave. Hundreds of people swarming in and out the whole night (there was usually a long wait to get in), and we never left the floor except to pee and get drinks and maybe harass the DJ into playing that Plastic Betrand song again. 
The one thing I do remember clearly about the 70's is the great war. 
We hated those wide lapels. We despised the simplistic beats and the cheesy lyrics. We loathed the repetition of the 12" versions of every song to hit the charts. Disco, we decided, must die.
And the end did come, 
Perhaps you have heard of some of these songs. But they are all tunes I listen to and think to myself "Am I the only one who likes this song? Does anyone I know even know this song/band exists/existed?" And then I wonder why there is so much crap out there on the radio and in the record stores and stuff I think is great falls into a musical crack. 
The singer - Jonah - sort of whines his way through a lot of the lyrics but I think his lyrics are a lot deeper than your average emo crap. Yea, there's self pity here, but not of the "I want to cut myself because my girlfriend decided she would rather just be friends" variety. Waiting for Sunday is an interesting take on organized religion. 
But back to Glassjaw, Everything You Wanted to Know About Silence is a kick in the gut from start to finish. It's vulgar, it's mean, it's sad and it kicks your ass.
Was this show really that good? Did I enjoy it enough to spend thirty dollars on it? Or was that silly surge of joy I felt when I saw the box more about a memory of sitting in front of the tv on a Saturday morning, eating sugared cereal and watching cartoons for hours than the actually enjoyment of the show itself?
Definitely not in Truckin'. Yea, the music makes me smile and makes me almost wistful for a time when I was a free of responsibility (and morals) teenager, but it does not make me wistful for the voice of Jerry Garcia. 
Even now, my kids will stumble upon an episode of the original Power Rangers and be mesmerized as if they were really enjoying the show, when they are just reveling in the memories of kicking the shit out of their friends while pretending to be the Green Ranger. My 17 year old daughter watches Barney once in a while just because it reminds her of, and I quote here, "when things were simple." 
The scenario plays out much better if I call the guy a few choice names, tell him exactly what I think of him, and then throw a cup of steaming hot coffee at his crotch. My anger is relieved, my rage has dissipated and I made my point without being wishy-washy about it. And everyone around me is spared my misdirected wrath. Works out for everyone!
Was that it? I only cared about the gang and Pop’s Choklit Shop. Pop was a cool guy.
You think Archie was all innocent and shit, but he was playing poor Betty bad. One night he’d be in her pants telling her he loves her, the next night he’d be saying “we’re just friends, Betty. Just friends.” And Betty just took it. The only thing that saved Betty from slitting her wrists and bleeding out all over her depression poetry was Ethel. No matter what Betty did, there was always a girl in town who was uglier, nerdier and more of a loser than her. 
Now, most people I know make the same resolutions every year. Lose weight. Quit smoking. Lay off the booze. Have more patience.
Consume my weight in dessert products
Every year, I'd say no. And every year I'd get the lecture about the family traditions and how the kids look soooo forward to it. My ass. They're crying to go home five minutes after we get there. And with good reason.
Lady: Well fine, I see you don't like me. The hell with you, then!
Ok, I like the traditional Christmas music. It gets me in the mood. But by the time it gets to be five or so days before Christmas, I get tired of it. I'll take the Frosty and Santa's Coming to Town and Up on the Rooftop and all those kid like goofy songs. But some of these tunes, oy vey. They bring out the Scrooge in me. Felice Navidad makes me stabby. That Christmas Shoes song makes me want to choke someone with a pair of cowboy boots. Have you ever heard Barbra Streisand's version of Jingle Bells? It's enough to make you turn Jewish. 
And, for Turtle:
. An umbrella hat
Ok? I know, you're a creative mom. You're artistic. You cry yourself to sleep at night knowing that your talents are going to waste on a couple of kids who don't appreciate that you can make a plate broccolli look like a topiary of characters from the Wizard of Oz. You could have done better. You should have listened to people when they told you a liberal arts degree was a waste of time. Computer Science was where it was at, but you thought being a starving artist was romantic. Look at you now. Cutting crusts off of bread for two midgets who piss their pants and throw peas in your face and don't appreciate your efforts to teach them shapes through organic peanut butter and banana sandwiches (this rant may or may not be personal).
9. porn
Let's visit the lighter side of Things I'm Thankful For.
There's laundry to be done while that one is playing. Gotta dye my hair. Rake the leaves. Anything but subject myself to watching little Anakin Skywalker whine his way through the movie. At least now we know where Luke got that trait from. 
Death is probably right. But in Sexton's defense, he has never seen the world before with Death as his guide. 
Along the walls of the passageway were drawings that would come to life as the fairy's light landed on them. At first, the passage was filled with the sound of my laughter, as I watched all kinds of funny, mystical creatures take wing and fly around me. But as we rounded a corner, the light played upon a creature so hideous that the site of its face knocked the wind out of me. I fell to the ground and as I did so, I caught site of the creature. He was staring at me through hideous eyes. Now that you have seen me, I will never let you forget me, is what he said. And I didn't forget him, which is obvious as I repeat this dream to you now.
22. Big day! your mom will call and guilt you into spending the holiday with her instead of your spouse's family. She has volunteered you to host the holiday.
It's just what I do. When I was little I would worry about the Russians and plane crashes and my parents dying in a horrific fire at the drive-in while they were watching Mothra. Yes, a fire at the drive-in. I was little. Even then, my imagination soared. I worried about school. I worried if my stuffed animals could breathe in my toy box. I worried if people liked me. It was pretty easy to let go of that worry once I realized they didn't. If only the Russians would have had the decency to ease my mind like that. 
I know when someone says "I'll call you in five minutes" and seven minutes later I start worrying about them, it's ridiculous. But they have to understand. My anxiety has a mind of its own. It does what it wants. I can argue with it and talk it down and tell it that it's being an ass, but its a force that will never give in. And then like a mental Ultraman, all these anxieties and worry and panic join together to form the most formidable opponent that serenity, peace and reason have ever known. Worst Case Scenario Girl has arrived.
Waiting for signs of the afterlife. Maybe the moans of the dead coming from inside the house, or a floating pig to appearing at the window. If the house was a freak show in itself, the kids roaming around outside it were just another ring in the circus. Drunk, loud and curious. Not a great combo there. Most kids would try to get into the house or vandalize it or pee in the bushes just for the hell of it.
costumes without the teachers worrying that we were creating a hostile environment for any children who may be proponents of peaceful mediation of conflicts rather than the old “I’ll fucking cut you, asshole” way of doing things. We were bums (sorry, "displaced residents") and hobos (sorry, "frugal travelers") and witches (sorry, "alternative religion worshipers"). Now you can't even be a freaking ghost without the principal accusing of you being insensitive to Jenny, whose grandmother passed away four weeks ago. I'm just betting that somewhere in the student body is a person whose ethnicity is Transylvanian.
This is the thing about Gauntlet. It’s a cooperative game. You play with someone else and you depend on that person you are playing with to help you through the levels. Cooperation. Working together to meet common goals. Food, health, ways to escape. If the person you are playing with doesn’t have your back, you die. Simple as that. So you work together, looking at what your individual strengths are and figuring out how to best use each other’s skills to stay alive and move on to the next level. You don’t give up on each other. You don’t bail. Because you depend on each other. 
The owl talks to the mouse in a soft, melodic tone, offering innocuous words about the weather. The mouse hesitates at first; it senses something, something not right, but the mouse, as always, pushes the feeling of foreboding to the back of its brain, where it can hide among all the other senses it discards so easily; danger, disaster, defenselessness. Those are not things to be dealt with. Those things get in the way of pursuit. And the mouse is pursuing a dream.
It’s October and my thoughts turn to horror movies.
‘Salem’s Lot - Oh, you know which scene. Face in the window. My sister used to try to scare me by going around to my bedroom window and scratching on it. That’s a good way to get yourself killed. By my hands.
I was only ten at the time. What the hell was my mother thinking taking me to see that? Eh, I should probably thank her.
I mean, it's great when you're 17 and stoned and sitting around a campfire at the beach and your friend has an out of tune acoustic guitar and starts strumming and you all start singing "bye, bye, miss American pie...." but come on. It's just too god damn long. By the time the last verse came around, I was always halfway down the other end of the beach, looking for a private place to pee.
But if you’re over 18 and not hindered by drug addiction or alcoholism that may cloud your thinking and you still believe these words are the most powerful thing you ever heard, you might want to find the nearest bathtub and emulate your idol.
[Note. The Action is Go will now be an occasional column instead of weekly. In its place is this. The column with no name. I'll be writing each week on, well, whatever I feel like. Maybe I'll tell you why The Wall is overrated. Maybe I'll tell you a story about the time we tried to have a rumble. Maybe I'll just write about Donald Duck. Maybe one of you can come up with a title for this column. Cause I sure as hell don't have one -Michele]
The dude has a huge chip on his shoulder. I mean, he’s obviously jealous of Mickey’s good looks and luck with the ladies, even though he has a girlfriend. Although Daisy isn’t much of a bargain. She’s kind of an enabler. Every time something goes wrong for Donald (through his own idiocy) she’ll try to soothe his frail ego instead of telling him where he went wrong. She caters to him and he treats her like shit. She takes whatever he gives her. I’m willing to be their sex includes a lot of "I said turn over, bitch!"
but suspenders as well, so when he was chasing that little girl around like a funny uncle, his shorts didn't fall down and reveal his monkey meat. I thank Hana Barbera for that. Wile E. Coyote? Completely unclothed, like a good animal should be. And Bugs, too. He wears nothing. Well, unless he’s in drag. But even then he has the sense to cover up his privates. But wearing nothing is fine, because that says to me that he is a rabbit. Rabbits generally don't wear clothes. His nakedness is natural. But slap a hat or necktie on him and you've got to have pants. 
I would head straight for the bar. Three shots. Can I have the change in quarters, please? And then I’d spend the rest of the night in front of the machine, mashing buttons and killing bugs and driving the Rally X car into walls. My friends were happy I got out of the house, and I managed to have a life that existed outside my bedroom. Win win situation. Except for when I played Galaga..
Ms. Pac-Man was a whore, anyhow. Come on, like you never thought that before. Look at her, all made up like a hooker at a MaryKay convention. She's probably hot for QBert. And dude. She's naked.
