Newsflash! Don't ask me about my tattoos. Especially, don't touch them. Yes, there is a certain degree of art involved. But, the flattery of strangers is not necessary, said the spider to the fly. Get this straight! I've never been to Ozzyfest or whatever it is called. I don't like Tommy Lee and I don't like this new old wave of Hot Topics-goth-alterna-crap. I like Glitter Rock. I like Pink Floyd with Syd Barret. I like the Jam. I like Hank Williams, Buck Owens, Red Sovine, and Lee Hazelwood. I like bluegrass and classical, too. I don't read Rolling Stone. I read British MOJO. I don't like the dude that wrote Fight Club. I like Harry Crews. I like Mencken and Faulkner. I'd rather have lunch with Studs Terkel and Groucho Marx than that Chuck Whiny-ass rock & pop culture critic and Dane Cook. I watch Lawrence Welk every week and get excited when Joe Finney comes on. I haven't watched MTV since pre-1990's. I am an old lady stuck in a body 40years too young. The zeitgeist of today is a flaming bag of dog poop sitting on my doorstep. I think my tattoos are a barely acceptable form of self-mutilation. And, piercing is DISGUSTING! People leave your tongues, nipples, and penises alone! And, if you can't, please don't tell me about it just because I have a bunch of steak tattooed on my arm. When will they realize I think they are bigger freaks than their grandparents do! So, if you're wondering... which you probably aren't, I consider my practices more closely related to a religious zealot whipping himself into a frenzy than some kid with bad posture at some straight edge or Emo or this is when we sing really soft and this is when we yell and then this is the rap part and now we are singing really soft again only to get mad and yell and rap at the same time show.
"Ah, little lad, you're staring at my fingers. Would you like me to tell you the little story of right-hand/left-hand? The story of good and evil? H-A-T-E! It was with this left hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low. L-O-V-E! You see these fingers, dear hearts? These fingers has veins that run straight to the soul of man. The right hand, friends, the hand of love. Now watch, and I'll show you the story of life. Those fingers, dear hearts, is always a-warring and a-tugging, one agin t'other. Now watch 'em! Old brother left hand, left hand he's a fighting, and it looks like love's a goner. But wait a minute! Hot dog, love's a winning! Yessirree! It's love that's won, and old left hand hate is down for the count!" --Rev. Harry Powell
On my way home from work tonight, I was waiting at a stoplight at the corner of 8th & Pittsburgh. It's a creeper light. It takes so long to turn. If no one is around, you creep. Well, I am singing at the top of my lungs. If my foot weren't on the break pedal, I'd be tapping it. What was I singing you ask? Bobby Vinton, of course. Then all of a sudden I hear some bass thumping next to me. My nails start to dig into the steering wheel. Then all of a sudden I realize I am seriously BLARING Bobby Vinton! Hah. Stick that in your blunt and smoke it, jerks!
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