Sunday, April 21, 2013

A Miner's Canary Caught in a Mousetrap, or: Fifty-Four Today; Sixty-Seven Today

Robert Smith was born fifty-four years ago today. All songs via Mr Alarum, he is/was a far bigger Cure fan than me if for no greater reason than Mr Alarum has a full head of hair (I've had the same haircut for thirty years) and better make-up skills than me, even the me of 1983 who couldn't have made myself look like Smith even had I tried.

The Cure hasn't aged well for me, or perhaps more accurately put, I haven't aged well for The Cure. If I had been told in 1983 that in 2013 I'd be listening to Buckingham/Nicks era Fleetwood Mac more than The Cure, the 1983 me, who had The Cure on the daily soundtrack and pretended to a deep disdain for Mac, would have laughed in disbelief. Still, they were on the daily soundtrack for at least a decade.

  • This is true, Earthgirl and Planet can vouch, when we were on our San Francisco/NoCal vacation during 2008 Spring Break, Bill Clinton was holding some bullshit Democratic think-tank money-maker that all the media flew out to cover, and on our flight home was CNN's John King and the chronically fuckwadding Chris Matthews. Forgive me, I did not highjack the plane and crash it into the Rockies, nor have I run the motherfucker down on Nebraska or Massachusetts Avenue nor shivved him in Wagshals when he's waiting for a brisket sandwich. I haven't even told him he's a fuckwad. Yes, this is one of my favorite gags.
  • Another old gag I haven't use for a while (maybe as long as this guy has been off-blog - welcome back): buying islands in Micronesia with no extradition treaties with U.S.
  • American Liberalism is fucked.
  • One the front page of Your Fucking Washington Post as I type this Sunday morning there are six lead stories and multiple bullets about the Boston bombing, not a single headline about the corporate bombing that wiped out a Texas city.
  • Oligarghs standing on the deck of the Titanic.
  • The Five Day War.
  • Black and tan. No, I don't think so, no, I won't say no.
  • Thought control and cynicism.
  • OK, this is my favorite Cure song:



Charles Simic

They explained to me the bloody bandages
On the floor in the maternity ward in Rochester NY,
Cured the backache I acquired bowing to my old master,
Made me stop putting thumbtacks around my bed.

They showed me an office on horseback,
Waving a sabre next to a burning farmhouse
And a barefoot woman in a nightgown,
Throwing stones after him and calling him Lucifer.

I was a straw-headed boy in patched overalls.
Come dark a chicken would roost in my hair.
Some even laid eggs as I played my ukelele
And my mother and father crossed themselves.

Next, I saw myself inside an abandoned gas station
Constructing a spaceship out of a coffin,
Red traffic cone, cement mixer and ear warmers,
When a church lady fainted seeing me in my underwear.

Some days, however, they opened door after door,
Always to a different room, and could not find me.
There'd be only a small squeak now and then,
As if a miner's canary caught in a mousetrap.


  1. I haven't even told him he's a fuckwad.

    Do you mean Bill Clinton, John King, or Chris Matthews? They're all fuckwads.

  2. Thank you!

    What a nice morning this has been so far.

    Charles Simic gave me a big hug and kiss after a poetry reading long ago and he's a prince.


    Read Your Fate

    A world's disappearing.
    Little street,
    You were too narrow,
    Too much in the shade already.

    You had only one dog,
    One lone child.
    You hid your biggest mirror,
    Your undressed lovers.

    Someone carted them off
    In an open truck.
    They were still naked, travelling
    On their sofa

    Over a darkening plain,
    Some unknown Kansas or Nebraska
    With a storm brewing.
    The woman opening a red umbrella

    In the truck. The boy
    And the dog running after them,
    As if after a rooster
    With its head chopped off.

    Charles Simic

  3. Dammit, forgot to request this:

    1. Also forgot to say this is Mr. A.

  4. But since he told them that they are here, he did triangulationly, bringing together multiple parties who share a disdain for such fuckwadding.