Song of the Day: Carissa’s Wierd (sic) – Die
Yesterday I went to a friend’s house for the 4th and two cousins who were there for the festivities – a boy of four and a girl, five – wanted me to scare them. Okay, I figured, I could do that. Children and I have generally come to a mutual decision to keep our distance. If they wanted to be scared, I would happily comply.
They demanded ten seconds to hide. Generously, I gave them twenty. In pursuit, I trudged through the house, grunting and groaning, a sort of Hunchback of Notre Dame who had been recently disemboweled. Without much warning, my ill-conceived hunchback morphed into a bear, and I found myself pawing at doors.
After a few swipes, I heard them giggling in a bathroom. I rattled the knob and their giggles turned to screams. With each growl and scratch I propelled them into a state of tortured distress. I pretended to move on and waited for them to make their escape.
Sure enough, they took the bait. They stuck their little heads out the door and I had them cornered. There was no way out. But, oddly, they did not run. Instead, they attacked. With me on all fours, they jumped on my back and held on as I staggered through the house. Then with grizzly-like ferocity, I roared up and stood upright. They stuck like burrs as I swung around and around in a perfect bear pirouette. As they howled in delight, I hoped to leave them dizzy and confused. It was, however, a thin line between victory and a trip to the emergency room, so before I could falter and split their heads against the furniture, I gently brought them safely to the ground.
Instantly they demanded that I scare them again.
This time they requested a three minutes head start, which they quickly negotiated down to thirty seconds. It did not matter. In no time I found the two cousins in a bedroom. Frankly, they were not particularly well hidden. Nor, were they scared. The girl growled back at me while the boy assumed a boxer’s stance. Lowering my head, I swatted at him and he jumped on my back, followed by his cousin. I made it to the hallway when the five year-old girl said with matter-of-fact decisiveness, “Let’s Kill Him.” Instantly, she went for my throat, squeezing my windpipe with a chilling authority that said she had killed before. The boy grabbed for my eyeball, digging into my sockets. I pried his hand away, not once but twice. While I seemingly thwarted his desire to blind me, he was not done. He, too, went for my neck. Before it became all too real, I feigned death, but the bloodthirsty urchins were undeterred, clinging to my neck with their little fingers, gleefully and maniacally intoxicated by the prospect of my impending demise.
Buy Carissa’s Wierd – They Only Miss You When You’re Gone 1996-2003 here or, preferably, somewhere else. Just buy it.
It’s Ray Davies’ birthday. He’s 67 and can happily look back on one of the greatest catalogs of the modern rock era. He is a constant source of inspiration and as long as music from our time is remembered, he will be too. It is no small feat.
If I have quibble about the song of the day, it is that I had always thought the line in “Village Green Preservation Society” was “God save strawberry jam in all its different varieties.” A truly brilliant declaration. Apparently, though, Mr. Davies actually sings, “God save strawberry jam and all the different varieties.” A fine notion, indeed, but probably not quite poetic enough to inspire jam’s ultimate salvation.
Being only 23 or 24 at the time, I suppose he can be forgiven.
For your enjoyment: A fantastic 1973 live version of the title track of the Kinks 1968 release “Village Green Preservation Society” (buy it now)
Beck meet Pavement. Pavement, Beck. Possibly one of the greatest double-bills I have ever seen, although oddly, it is not presented as such on the ticket. Pavement opened this show and while notoriously an uneven live band, they were stellar that night. Beck followed with an incredibly dynamic performance, essentially channeling Bob Dylan, James Brown, Elvis Presley and perhaps a little Vanilla Ice into a whole that deliriously transcended the sum of its parts. It was truly a post-modern masterpiece, proving that Odelay was not just a studio construction, but a heartfelt and emotionally resonant blueprint for the new millennium. In 1997, Beck simply was where it’s at. It was a huge privilege to be there.
The show was quite intoxicating, but what I remember most about that night had nothing to do with the music. I was in the helplessly smitten phase of a long distance relationship and my new girlfriend (let’s call her Agnes) had come down to visit me in Los Angeles for the weekend. If ignorance is bliss, well, I couldn’t have been happier that day. Myopically, I thought the feeling was mutual. Agnes, though, I would learn later, was not doing quite so well. She had just had an abortion that morning, the product of a previous dalliance.
That abortion’s ghost would haunt the rest of our relationship. The thwarted fetus’s father would learn of his progeny’s demise many months after the fact and to Agnes’s surprise, he expressed sadness that she hadn’t carried the child to term. He would have loved to have been a dad. A veteran of several abortions, Agnes had never had a sperm owner express regret at her choice before and, naturally, it made her think she had made a huge mistake.
Despite her inner turmoil, Agnes would move into my L.A. apartment about eight months later. After three weeks together, she returned to San Francisco for a long weekend. She had “some loose ends” to clean up.
I have not seen her since. She never came back, abandoning everything she owned so she could reconcile with the father of her abortion. There are just some ties that are too strong to break and this was apparently one of them.
Naturally, I was heartbroken. Just as the beginning of love blinded me, so did its end. Only recently have I come around to seeing what an achievement Agnes’s actions were that day: having an abortion, hopping on a plane to L.A. and heading straight for an epic rock extravaganza. Considering that she simply walked out of my life without offering an explanation for about a year, I had thought Agnes was gutless and weak, but she clearly possessed a serious degree of fortitude that I have long failed to acknowledge.
So if ignorance is bliss, the truth is waiting in the weeds, poised to jump out like a rabid wild boar and bite you in the ass. I was better not knowing about Agnes’s abortion that day, just like I would have been better off not knowing about, say, Beck’s conversion to Scientology. While his so-called religion should be irrelevant to me, I haven’t really been able to enjoy his music since. Sometimes, it’s best just not to know. The father of Agnes’s abortion would have been better off knowing nothing and Agnes would have been better off not knowing that he would have liked to father her child. After all, from what I understand that relationship didn’t end up lasting very long.
Life gets messy fast. No wonder, in the end, all anyone really wants is a shady lane …
Tonight in Seattle: The Black Lips !!!
I have been a very bad blogger and I suspect that I will be damaged to a significant degree after tonight’s festivities. Do not be surprised if I never blog again. Will the world still spin? Hard to say. But, if not, you know who to blame.
Song of the Day: Can – Don’t Say No
From their 1977 LP Saw Delight:
Enjoy.
P.S. The Beehive is hitting the road and will be back for more regular postings at the end of the week …
lonesomebeehive 