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"I wish someone would kindy put on the light. It may not he'p me but I think it might Looks like I missed out on the party, again 'cuz I cain't find the doorknob, I cain't get in" ...Jimmy And Johnny from the Ace Rockabilly collection ...haven't heard that one in a while. Love my roots reggae, dearly, but I'm allover peckish for some frenzied footpounding twang. Singleminded banging away on noisy instruments. Great show on the WTJU, this afternoon... "Radio Veronica." Kendall, the selector. This one was the capper. A few minutes before, I'd just come in from screwing around, outside. I fought the lawn and the lawn won. Covered with a funky demiglace of grass clippings, sweat, and these microscopic little orange biting bastards (Yes. This is My Country. Bug Country. We got this straight-backed constitution from having every square inch of our hides bugbitten by the time we're 18). My "Hank Hill" day (whose most excellent quote is... "Nobody likes a knowitall who sits around and talks about their genitalia"). So I was ready for fluids in mass quantity, and in need of another song to rerun in my brain for the next onslaught. There's something about the ear-plugged muffled drone of Briggs and Stratton that brings the worst songs to mind... ones that you are horrified that you know the words to. You know the kind. And playback on an endless loop, they will. Like stepping onto the accelerator for the kickdown gear, I was hearing the Undertones' "Teenage Kicks." Two HarDCore songs from Black Market Baby. And Jimmy and Johnny shoved in the middle. Now THAT'S broadcasting. By cracky, I brandished that weedeater like Joe Strummer's Telecaster on "Clash City Rockers." _________________________________________________ Later, I pass up the opportunity to watch the England/Brazil and USA/Germany matches with Robin and the "bearded English Lady" (his words, not mine). Dianne comes with me to the station for my show on Fridays (probably to ward off all of the college girls... as if), and already acts bored shitless. So we'll be there for five + hours. And to expect pleasantries when I pop over for four hours of footie? I'm thinking not. Problem here is that she has no other friends. Or has, but won't cultivate their friendship. So she silently demands that we be inseparable. I'm getting itchy. "...cain't find the doorknob, I can't get in!" |
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