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Welcome To The Buckets Of Blood, Son

The Heir had a happening at our house yesterday. He called, or texted, or Facebooked, or Skyped — or some damn thing — three of his friends, and invited them over to our hovel to take advantage of the eight inches of packed powder on our twelve-pitch unshoveled driveway. They assembled all sorts of slippery things and bombed down to the rocky three-foot drop into the back yard, over and over, and wouldn’t rest until they fell over it into the thistles. Then they sat in the snowbank out front like off-duty Cardinals or mobsters and decided things. The Spare tagged along in glorious me-too fashion.

We bankrupted ourselves to feed them all pizza after they got too cold to tire themselves out anymore, or got too tired to freeze themselves anymore, or most likely got too bored to be tired and frozen anymore and came inside.  They bivouacked like bedouins in the living room, and killed each other mercilessly on the screen for a while. The little one circled them like a sparrow in a McDonald’s parking lot, and seemed to think it was funny to look at each of his brother’s friends in turn and say, “Take a bath, hippie!” It was all meet.

The heir later approached me in a manner I can identify at ten paces. He’s going to ask me a question he expects to hear No after. A little hangdog. Peaches’ dad plays country music in the lodge at the ski area, and lets Peaches play along with him. He says I can play too. Can I go.

When I was just a couple years older than my son, I began playing for money in roadhouses, or, as my father used to call them, “buckets of blood”. I supplied the soundtrack to the Sack of Rome With A Two-Dollar Cover three nights a week for a good, long time. I had to support myself and needed the money. I eventually ended up in about as well-paying and benign an appendix of the non-original music business as you can name, but it’s not a wholesome industry, even there. It’s hard for me to hand the kid over to it. I said yes.

It’s as salubrious a situation as he’s going to get. The operative words were “Country Music.” The persons arranging for entertainment to be presented to bunny-slope refugees near the fireplace have to have a rule of thumb to use to avoid having the Anal Lesions Of Fiery Megadeath Massacre Of The Innocents playing at flight deck volume and driving people out into the parking lot. No matter what any rock band they hire to “entertain” says when they’re trying to get the gig, they don’t care what the audience or management wants to hear, and don’t care if 110 decibels is a lot of decibels. “Country” is a code word for quiet and inoffensive.

There was an amusing list of The 50 Greatest Guitar Riffs In Rock and Roll making the rounds of the aggregators last week. It’s gargantuanly misnamed. With very few exceptions, it’s really 50 Random Ringtones A Plumber’s Heavily Tattooed Helper Might Like, Gleaned From Songs Nobody Female Will Sit Through If Played By A Cover Band. My son is being trained to know better.

He does have music lessons, but they’re almost entirely on an autodidactic basis. He’s taught himself most everything he knows, and has bought his own instruments with money he earned himself. I did give him some advice, though, I’ll admit it. No; not advice exactly. It was too gruffly delivered to be advice. I told him to learn songs, all the way through, and learn the words and sing them as best he can. I told him no matter what happens, to keep going. I told him to entirely ignore what anyone male says they want to hear, or to play. Otherwise you’ll forever only be able to play The 50 Greatest Guitar Riffs In Rock And Roll, wrong, while the clerk in the music store rolls his eyes — because the music store and your friend’s garage and other assorted sausage fests are the only place you’re ever going to play. He took that advice to heart.

They stuck him out front after about five minutes and played along with him, and after a while he played some songs alone because they can’t keep up. The snow bunnies crowded around him after while he sipped his root beer.

We’re almost all done with him. You can have him for good, soon. Our loss.

[Related: Money Changes Everything]

A Place In The Sun, By The Pan-Galactic Everly Brothers.

They should have quit after that first song, canceled the rest of the show, then retired. There’s nothing left to do here.

Like a long lonely stream
I keep runnin’ towards a dream
Movin’ on, movin’ on
Like a branch on a tree
I keep reachin’ to be free
Movin’ on, movin’ on.

There’s a place in the sun
Where there’s hope for everyone
Where my poor restless heart’s gotta run.
There’s a place in the sun
And before my life is done
Got to find me a place in the sun

Like an old dusty road
I get weary from the load
Movin’ on, movin’ on
Like this tired troubled earth
I’ve been rollin’ since my birth
Movin’ on, movin’ on

There’s a place in the sun
Where there’s hope for everyone
Where my poor restless heart’s gotta run
There’s a place in the sun
And before my life is done
Got to find me a place in the sun

(Thanks to Charles Schneider for sending that along, it brightened my day. How about yours?)

He Coulda Been Somebody


(Note: A little foul language in there)

I think Marlon Brando is better than you do.

It’s because I didn’t pay attention to the last thirty years or so of his life. More or less, The Godfather is the last movie I saw him in, and I didn’t see that when it came out; too young. So no, Jor-El didn’t affect my opinion much. Neither did Apocalypse Now, which isn’t really a movie, and he’s not really in it– it’s just a big self-indulgent mess of misplaced anger and sentiment, with Marlon doing the only sensible thing in it: cashing a check and going home.

All those bad movies were Marlon’s version of an old ballplayer sitting at a card table signing autographs for a few bucks apiece. But in Brando’s case, the little kids waiting to touch the hem of his shabby muu-muu were film directors clutching a few hundred grand, and the card table was a film set.  He got too big for the milieu he was in, which is very big indeed, and became Elvis or Santa Claus or something. That’s not his fault. Hell, whoever made this mashup pasted it over a Beatles song that tested the outer limits of the public’s appetite to adore anything, and there’s Brando on the album’s cover.

People should be aware of things that happened before they were born. They should pay some attention to things that matter to those younger than themselves, too. How else will you raise children properly? People should put things in context.

You can see it, if you look closely. There’s this dotted line between standing on wooden floorboards yelling whispers to a house, and having a lens an inch from your nose in an artificial world with only a theoretical audience to pitch your wares to. Marlon Brando erased this line.

Our Continuing Series: Paul Robeson Playing Softball

Hello, and welcome from the management. Please remember to tip our bartenders and waitresses, and remember we are not responsible for lost articles, or adjectives for that matter.

If you’re new to the Cottage, we have a longstanding tradition. We feature pictures of Paul Robeson playing softball each Wednesday at exactly 9:38 in the AM.

The management regrets that we are a little short of pictures of Paul Robeson playing softball this week, and our fallback offerings of Videos Of Marlon Brando Playing The Bongos In A Grotto Fashioned After A Drunkard’s Nightmare Videos are offline right now, so we offer you, the discerning listener, er, reader, er, viewer, er, connoisseur, yes, that’s it, our Videos of Marlon Brando Playing the Ukelele On French Television Videos. Look for it in labels under VMBPUOFTV in the future. Enjoy, and drive safely.

By Popular Demand… The Cubicle Drinking Song!

But you won’t stay popular very long requesting songs like this.

Anyway, the Edjamikated Redneck wanted the boys to sing Charlie and the CLM, and he’s pleasant so we hauled out the Flip camera and Got ‘er Dun.

* While it may sound like it, no animals were harmed in the making of this video.

Here are the words if you want to sing along. We sound better if you do. And have a few stiff drinks.

Charlie And His CLM

Let me tell you all the story
Of the PC LOAD LETTER
And poor Charlie’s dyspeptic day
He’d eaten Kung Pao in Woonsocket,
Walked the aisle to the printer
And cropdusted the entire way

Chorus:
Did he ever return,
No he never returned
But his smell is still discerned
Prairie Dog coworkers
wonder who was passing
He cropdusted, and never returned.

Charlie lingered at the printer
As the gas cloud settled
Shoved in two reams of foolscap plain
Then the LaserJet was blinking, saying
LOW ON TONER
Charlie rumbled, and started to strain

Chorus:
Did he ever return,
No he never returned
But his smell is still discerned
Prairie Dog coworkers
wonder who was passing
He cropdusted, and never returned.

Now all day long
Charlie stands at the Canon
Thinking, “What will become of me?”
Crying
There’s never any paper
In the Men’s Room holders
And he was going to need a whole Dead Tree

Chorus:
Did he ever return,
No he never returned
But his smell is still discerned
Prairie Dog coworkers
wonder who was passing
He cropdusted, and never returned.

Charlie’s boss goes down
To the handicapped bathrooms
Every day at a quarter past two
And Charlie knew the danger
If he toilet bombed his bosses
When the szechuan came rumblin’ through.

Chorus:
Did he ever return,
No he never returned
But his smell is still discerned
Prairie Dog coworkers
wonder who was passing
He cropdusted, and never returned.

As his lunch rolled on
underneath his spattered tieclip
Charlie looked around and then he sighed:
“Well, I’m sore and disgusted
And my bowels can’t be trusted,”
And he lay down by the fax and died.

Chorus:
Did he ever return,
No he never returned
But his smell is still discerned
Prairie Dog coworkers
wonder who was passing
He cropdusted, and never returned.

Songs Engendered By Driving Past Emo Girls Texting At A Yard Sale In Norway, Maine

Fat girl texting in her bed all night
Man, those stubby thumbs can really fly
All Done, Bye Bye (ADBB)
She was only waiting for the pizza to arrive

Facebook Friending in the dead of night
Tagging Bieber’s Wall for all to see
(Pie!) AYCE
You are only waiting for his Poking to be free

Fat girl, type
Fat girl, type
Into your T-Mobile myTouch Slide.

Fat girl, type
Fat girl, type
Into your T-Mobile myTouch Slide.

Fat girl texting in her bed all night
Man, those stubby thumbs can really fly
ADBB
She was only waiting for the pizza to arrive
She was only waiting for the pizza to arrive
She was only waiting for the pizza to arrive

Tag: VMBPBGFADNV

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