Remember this cat? I liked Captain Kangaroo but I loved Jack Barry. He was clearly the darkest, most pleasantly demonic gameshow host, ever. I was mesmerized by his presence and when the jokers on the screen would emerge behind him, it really was as if hell opened up the gates for a peek. Fucking glorious.
My friends and I decided that via his evil glare looming behind the smile, when Jack was smilingly encouraging contestants to pull the mechanical spinning arm, his inner voice was really and demonically saying "Go ahead sum'bitch, PULL." God, that's beauty. So's this line from my favorite songwriter, Justin Keane:

We're lovers, penitents, and angels in between.

Back. In Black.

Maybe I'm semi blog-challenged, for whatever it matters. I currently have so many roles in life and one of them is not really writing the way I used to, for better or worse. So here I go making another blog, abandoning those others, only slightly posted upon. Why the hell not? I've spent the better part of two days deconstructing lyrics from Exile on Main St., in my head, which is real common territory. Real-ly. I've made a point to try and listen to that record, oh forgive me, it's a CD now, every week, particularly on Sundays,for years now, because it, well, because it makes me want. And I like to want. I've been thinking about wanting, a lot. Not that I want A LOT, literally, etc., but the concept of wanting, specifically how that translates into interacting with others. I'm maybe attempting to attach a level to my own inherent selfishness. Do I really need to? Do I even fucking care? Those songs are so much more interesting to dissect, ain't they? Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider/You could be my partner in crime is probably the most romantic thing I could think a paramour, or potential, could utter.
God, I love cement. These fucking palm trees, man, they're killing me.