The Sister always liked Chocolate Bunnies from Hell, not for the music but for the name. But this one is almost psychic. The only way it could be closer is “The Borderline Homicidal Spaceship” and all we’d play would be punk versions of Ennio Morriccone tunes.
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Hey, it’s summer and there’s a Gawker commenter meetup tomorrow and I have to get presentable and meet someone I’ve never seen before for drinks at Connor Butler in three hours and I still have to get this apartment ready for a houseguest or at least throw the sheets in the washing machine and take out the recycling so he doesn’t think I’m an alkie and make a post about my new blogging classes and I was supposed to get the press release out today but instead I had to wrestle with the damn computer for hours and restart upon restart and don’t even ASK about the Zune and besides, there’s a total buckpassing issue that I have to solve one way or another in the next 12 days not that you asked but have you heard anything? and don’t even ask about the personal life plus there’s an event going on tomorrow that I’m really looking forward to and was supposed to have all the sequins sewn on by today but I don’t but Irwin says the event doesn’t exist and I suppose an arts administrator would say if an event falls at Trout Lake but nobody administers it does it occur at all? but then I’m an anarchist, so what do you think I said, eh? Plus I’ve had two requests in the past 24 hours for a sandbagging tutorial (ie “I have a troll on my ass and I want to lay the smackdown on him; can you help?” Oh, baby, it’s what I DO!) which I totally would have done except:
A) why let the enemy read your battle plans and
B) computer problems (see above).
So I don’t know about you, but I need this. A mashup of Britney Spears’s Toxic and the B-52’s Love Shack:
I should explain.
I should explain, specifically, about the fangirl gene. I got the fangirl gene (I think The Sister escaped that particular fate, and much time and cash it has saved her, too, even though the first concert I went to was a Shawn Cassidy concert because my mother was damned if SHE was taking my sister to a Shawn Cassidy concert, but somebody had to; oh yes, and then there was the Starsky and Hutch phase she went through, and the Donny Osmond come to think of it but hey, Osmond could sing and there was precious little in the way of entertainment value in Wiarton, let me tell you OH and did I mention I asked Wiarton Willie to friend me on Facebook? We go back aways) from my mother.
My mother was the original Elvis fan.
It’s family legend, and probably truthful at that (rare in Irish families, it must be said, and it must be said, in fact, by none other than me) that when she worked at Eatons she told her boss she needed Tuesday off, because that was the day Elvis was coming to Ottawa and her boss said she couldn’t have Tuesday off, so she threatened to quit.
This is where I learned my work ethic as well, by the way.
She nearly divorced my father any number of times, the most serious of which was when they went down South for a trip and he did NOT take her to see Elvis, who was playing 20 minutes from where they were staying.
So, that’s where I get it. Apologies to (um, lessee…) Viggo Mortensen, Steve Jobs, Kenneth Branagh, Tony Blair, Bono, Kurt Cobain, Prince Caspian (circa Voyage of the Dawn Treader only), Mark and Jason from Battle of the Planets, Mister Spock, and the boys in The Wolves of Willoughby Chase
But I’m over that now.
No, really. Despite my occasionally slightly-more-enthusiastic-than-can-quite-pass-for-objective comments on Valleywag Steve Jobs posts. So over that.
In any case and anyway, here is something my mother would treasure: actual physical evidence that stars, or at least Elvis, transcend(s) time and space, manifesting here in a 2nd Century AD Roman bust:
I know, I’ve been heavy on the YouTubes lately (and even have a couple of Atenes up my sleeve) but I cannot NOT post this: my second-favorite Sesame Street character performing my third-favorite piece of music:
Everybody meep along!
Well, I’ve never been one to dip a toe in when I could plunge over the cliff taking an entire bus with me instead.
So…Facebook.
MistressCowfish suggested I start a group, because after Friending people, Grouping is teh hawtness on Facebook, which sounds to my elderly ears like a rave gotten completely out of control, but whatever.
I have Grouped.
If you’re on Facebook, you’ll find me at The Deadbeat Club (cue Metro‘s bitter humour…).
Inspired by glorious deadbeats throughout history such as the authors of Frugal Indulgents, Dorothy Parker, Oscar Wilde, Quentin Crisp, Vincent Van Gogh, and that guy … you know … that guy whose name I can’t remember, who destroyed his priceless collections and then killed himself rather than let the collection fall into Ceasar’s hands. See, if Boris would join the group he could tell us who that was.
Yes, surely in a Deadbeat Club there’s some room for rich, sore losers. Especially if they’re buying.
Ladies, Gentlemen, and the Undecided, please raise your glasses, mugs, or sippy cups to our anthem:
The Deadbeat Club by The B 52’s
I was good, I could talk A mile a minute, On this caffeine buzz I was on We were really hummin' We would talk every day for hours We belong to the deadbeat club Anyway we can, We're gonna find something We'll dance in the garden In torn sheets in the rain We're the deadbeat club We're the deadbeat club Going down to Allen's for A twenty-five cent beer And the jukebox playing real loud, "Ninety-six tears" We're wild girls walkin' down the street Wild girls and boys going out for a big time Let's go crash that party down In Normaltown tonight Then we'll go skinny-dippin' In the moonlight We're wild girls walkin' down the street Wild girls and boys going out for a big time Anyway we can We're gonna find something We'll dance in the garden In torn sheets in the rain Chorus Oh no! Here they come The members of the deadbeat club
raincoaster 