Friday, June 10, 2005
london calling
and there is nobody left to answer. . .
The Wife is exhausted from getting up at 2:30 am to do her homework and prepare for her nursing school clinicals today at the children's hospital. The Boy just spent a day with wires glued to his head. So he is also justifiably wiped. Sleep my loved ones, sleep. . .
I have just returned from making a quick trip down to our neighborhood convenience store. The dogs were hungry. Not anymore. Total time, less than 15 minutes. Ah, that's why it's called the convenience store. . .
I start the car in the convenience store parking lot.
Visually I scan my surroundings and focus with amused reminiscing detachment on a group of late middle school or early high school age boys. They're just hanging out while doing their best to look cool on bikes and boards. Judging from the products they hold it appears as though they are seeking a greater level of sugar buzz. With wolfpack eyes they watch a young woman riding by on a bicycle.
[A young woman on a bicycle? I don't believe in Peter Pan, Frankenstein or Superman. But once again I digress. . . ]
Auditorially I start scanning the radio for something minimally entertaining enough to keep my attention for the brief drive home.
The Clash, "London Calling", about half-way through. Cool. Haven't heard this song in a long long while. So I do what all good people do in such situations. . .
I turn it up man and metaphorically (emphasize metaphorically as my trip home takes me past an elementary school) rock out with my cock out.
The song ends as I pull in the driveway. I hear the soothing softly smoky sounds of the FM radio female DJ. While I do not recognize her voice, I can tell by her tone that I have inadvertently tuned to mega conglomerate corporate evil.
The classic rock station?
No you di'unt! (Please visualize appropriate and correspondingly sassy hand and/or body gestures here.)
The sands of time continue to resist my best shoveling efforts. They have piled high enough to allow me to begrudgingly accept the fact that The Cars are now considered classic rock; but The Clash?
(Please hold your breath with the appropriate amount of disdainful irony as you notice the Sony logo on the linked Clash website.)
Ah, come the fuck on!
To add insult to injury and finish salting the wound the DJ says something like this:
"That was the title track from The Clash's influential 1979 release. Also in that set were tracks by Rod Stewart and Emerson Lake and Palmer. . . "
Tracks by Rod Stewart and ELP? Along with The Clash?
My head is exploding.
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London calling to the faraway townsIt's about 8:30 on a Friday night. Big fun in the Big City. The Wife and The Boy snuggle together in our bed and sleep soundly. The bedroom television acts as a nightlight. On "Dateline", Angelina Jolie (shwing!) explains to ignorantly deaf and irony lacking ears our shared annoyance at a culture busily ignoring important issues in order to worship at the Altar of Celebrity.
Now war is declared, and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls
London calling, now don't look to us
Phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain't got no swing
'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing
The Wife is exhausted from getting up at 2:30 am to do her homework and prepare for her nursing school clinicals today at the children's hospital. The Boy just spent a day with wires glued to his head. So he is also justifiably wiped. Sleep my loved ones, sleep. . .
I have just returned from making a quick trip down to our neighborhood convenience store. The dogs were hungry. Not anymore. Total time, less than 15 minutes. Ah, that's why it's called the convenience store. . .
I start the car in the convenience store parking lot.
Visually I scan my surroundings and focus with amused reminiscing detachment on a group of late middle school or early high school age boys. They're just hanging out while doing their best to look cool on bikes and boards. Judging from the products they hold it appears as though they are seeking a greater level of sugar buzz. With wolfpack eyes they watch a young woman riding by on a bicycle.
[A young woman on a bicycle? I don't believe in Peter Pan, Frankenstein or Superman. But once again I digress. . . ]
Auditorially I start scanning the radio for something minimally entertaining enough to keep my attention for the brief drive home.
The Clash, "London Calling", about half-way through. Cool. Haven't heard this song in a long long while. So I do what all good people do in such situations. . .
I turn it up man and metaphorically (emphasize metaphorically as my trip home takes me past an elementary school) rock out with my cock out.
The song ends as I pull in the driveway. I hear the soothing softly smoky sounds of the FM radio female DJ. While I do not recognize her voice, I can tell by her tone that I have inadvertently tuned to mega conglomerate corporate evil.
The classic rock station?
No you di'unt! (Please visualize appropriate and correspondingly sassy hand and/or body gestures here.)
The sands of time continue to resist my best shoveling efforts. They have piled high enough to allow me to begrudgingly accept the fact that The Cars are now considered classic rock; but The Clash?
(Please hold your breath with the appropriate amount of disdainful irony as you notice the Sony logo on the linked Clash website.)
Ah, come the fuck on!
To add insult to injury and finish salting the wound the DJ says something like this:
"That was the title track from The Clash's influential 1979 release. Also in that set were tracks by Rod Stewart and Emerson Lake and Palmer. . . "
Tracks by Rod Stewart and ELP? Along with The Clash?
My head is exploding.
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