Sippican Cottage

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I’m In The Mood For… NIRVANA!!!111!!!! (From 2007)

This video is bound to drive certain devotees of the original up the wall. Why, that’s enough to get me to like it right there.

Paul Anka wrote the Tonight Show theme. Paul Anka doesn’t have to work. I imagine he does it because he likes it, and the seats are full every night. He could spend an additional four hours daily in his Pan-Galactic tanning bed. And for all his multi-decadal-highwater-Haband-pants-early-bird-special vibe, I’m sure he’s been presented with the opportunity to get an intimate look at more young ladies than a workaholic gynecologist on speed in an all night clinic.

Paul Anka has always been immensely square, if you ask me. But he seems perfectly comfortable in his irradiated skin, doesn’t he? And when you consider how subversive his rendition of Smells Like Teen Spirit is, you see he’s hipper than Curt Cobain could ever be.

Fight the power, Paulie. Stick it to The Man.

(In the comments, Deb from Madison casts an approving eye back to another version of this same song we enjoyed here: Googlewhack is Amused )

Lip-Synching This Song Is Like Buying Flowers For Your Sex Doll

Maybe not. Maybe buying premium gas for a rental car. No, that’s not it. Anyway, why is the Enzyte guy yelling at us with an orchestra? I dunno.

The video got truncated in editing. In the original, at the very end, the guy unhinges his jaw and eats a live capybara whole.

The Crow

THE CROW
by: SIPPICAN COTTAGE

The crow sat down and thought a bit

Who is to say what laws permit

I take a thing that draws my eye

My interest is my alibi

I travel through the wicked world

My Jolly Roger is unfurled

I have the knack of nicking stuff

It makes it mine oddly enough

The owners have no fixed ideas

Their compost piles my gallerias

They value things that I don’t want

I pick their trash like a savant

I drag bits out and hawk the wares

To former owners unawares

Who ooh and aah at my concision

They’re unaware of their misprision

The stuff you want is all around

I find it laying on the ground

But when you see me overhead

You wish you had my stuff instead

 

Alone

The wife and ma don’t get it. Yer always alone.

The corner men yellin’ all that stuff and I don’t hear a word of it. No crowd, nothin’ all the time. I hear the other guy chuffin’ and the bell and that’s it.

The fight doctor never says nothin’ but I hear him all right. Watching like an audience that’s allowed to climb in the ring and beat you. The swells sit with their broads in the front row and I shower them with a man’s sweat and baptise ’em. I could beat them all one after another or all at once but they’re not there. The fight doctor is there over your shoulder, like death.

It’s a wonder I ain’t killed ten refs ’cause they’re not there, neither. They can say what they like and stand between me and the beezer I’m pounding and I jes go around ’em like a fireplug. You don’t listen to fireplugs, do ya? I don’t listen to none of them ’cause they’re not sayin’ anything I need to hear. I’ll kill that man if they let me and he can cheat all he wants so it’s all nothin’ to me and I roll with it.

Oh, the new ones come and try every gambetto and the refs give ’em a little talking to. I swear they do it to get a minute away from me with a little man that smells of aftershave instead of a big man that smells of sweat and death. I’m your dentist and they’re all coming out, pal. Hit me low and he talks to you and saves you for a minute. I don’t care.

The ref backs away and we’re alone again. You can’t win. I like it here.

The Young Man Don’t Know Nothin’ (from 2008)

Ya see, the young man comes in and he don’t know nothin’. That’s a given.

Well, not precisely nothin’. He knows all sorts of things. It’s just that everything he knows isn’t so, or ain’t worth a fart in a whirlwind to know. Useless.

But a young man ain’t born useless. You got to make him so. A young man is born to be a boon to his fellow man and a credit to his parents, if his parents don’t pay too much attention to him and ruin him. Let him be.

They come all in here, extravagant of hair but miserly with manners. They want to start right in being something. Son, you’re an unthrowed pot. Stand up straight and listen.

You see, you ain’t born knowing, and you can’t learn it in a book. How you gonna know to put fabric softener in the steam box to make the oak come out of there real withy and limber? Your grammar school teacher don’t tell you that out there in the real world you gotta use the ceiling for a brace for the inner stem while you make down the bolt.

Oh the smart ones come in, though, not as often as you’d like but often enough, and just remind you how dumb you were when you were their age. They’re young and handsome and clever and the whole world stretches out to their horizon. You’re already on the horizon and you know it. And you think to yourself how wise that boy is to come in here and stand up straight there with the wrong clothes and a box of the wrong tools, and not enough of them, and his hands like his momma’s –smart enough to say “I don’t know nothin’ but I’m willing to learn if you’ll show me.”

That boy knows everything.

So What

I wouldn’t put my finger in that change return slot if there was fifty bucks in it. The greasy handset, battered by a numberless army of salesmen and lovers, hangs like a murderer on a gibbet over the thing. Let the bums get it. She said she’d come. I’m not calling her any more.

I loved the feeling of the neon glowing on the side of my face in there. Don’t tell me it’s just light. I feel it like the sun. It’s the only sun I’ll ever acknowledge. The one in the morning rises alone. Mine rises when the manager flips the switch. It never sets on me, that sun.

Man, that scirocco of sweat and booze and cigs and breath like a welder’s tank. I feel like I’m born again, from a mummy’s womb. Straight on in, just like the music.

The stage is exactly three inches and a galaxy away from the dance floor. Dance? Please. Stumble around with a woman that ain’t your wife floor, I think. I like the old dude that looks like Batman’s butler or a fruity sort of baron or something that conducts or sways or whatever it is he’s doing. He’s possessed with it, same as me. He’s usually possessed of plenty of cake, a desire to buy a man a drink, and an aversion to arithmetic, too. The waitresses adore that.

The curtain is dirty from wiping your hands on it. Me included. It’s dirty like life is. Up high, it’s dirty with cobwebs and dust and corruption because you can’t reach up there. Down low it’s dirty with the grubby hands of all of us trying to wipe off the sweat and grease of what you’re doing.

I listen for the cornshucks of the brushes on the snare. He hits it, but I don’t care about that. In between — the faint circular sketching he does without thinking — that’s what I’m after. He’s lathering the dry face of the song so I can shave it with the sharp edge of the brass. The bass rumbles like thunder in the distance.

I can taste metal and blood and booze in my mouth. Tastes like life.

Month: February 2010

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