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fredag 23 december 2011
Noel: Christmas Eve 1913
Judy Garland i Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (tear jerker)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0NmxxBmFV0&feature=related
torsdag 22 december 2011
onsdag 21 december 2011
tisdag 13 december 2011
måndag 12 december 2011
söndag 11 december 2011
söndag 4 december 2011
fredag 2 december 2011
torsdag 1 december 2011
fredag 25 november 2011
tisdag 22 november 2011
måndag 21 november 2011
tisdag 15 november 2011
måndag 14 november 2011
lördag 12 november 2011
fredag 11 november 2011
Mel Tormé, Oscar Brown Jr med flera
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOeL7GbBdkk&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c26vJfOMBuI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UY8zK4R9oE8
Walden - Henry David Thoreau
Nordamerikanska inbördeskriget 1861-65 förefaller så avlägset, att människorna i det inte synes oss lika verkliga som de som upplevde andra världskriget.
Men när man tar del av poeten Walt Whitmans historia 1819-1892, och hans tankar och iakttagelser av dåtiden som han nedtecknade dem på 1850-talet, ja, då blir då nu.
Samma märkliga process inträffar när man lyssnar till uppläsningen av David Henry Thoreaus "Walden".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuoMHA6XXqY
Men när man tar del av poeten Walt Whitmans historia 1819-1892, och hans tankar och iakttagelser av dåtiden som han nedtecknade dem på 1850-talet, ja, då blir då nu.
Samma märkliga process inträffar när man lyssnar till uppläsningen av David Henry Thoreaus "Walden".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuoMHA6XXqY
tisdag 8 november 2011
måndag 7 november 2011
söndag 6 november 2011
onsdag 26 oktober 2011
tisdag 25 oktober 2011
måndag 17 oktober 2011
söndag 16 oktober 2011
torsdag 29 september 2011
onsdag 28 september 2011
måndag 26 september 2011
FM rock extravaganza
fredag 23 september 2011
torsdag 22 september 2011
onsdag 21 september 2011
tisdag 20 september 2011
tisdag 13 september 2011
söndag 11 september 2011
lördag 10 september 2011
fredag 9 september 2011
torsdag 8 september 2011
torsdag 1 september 2011
tisdag 30 augusti 2011
Diverse stillsam musik
Lägger här ut lite låtar på temat mina diskodagar på tidigt 70-tal. Det är bara bitterljuv nostalgi.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9J3u3uZaOK8&feature=related
tisdag 23 augusti 2011
lördag 13 augusti 2011
söndag 24 juli 2011
söndag 17 juli 2011
torsdag 14 juli 2011
onsdag 6 juli 2011
fredag 10 juni 2011
torsdag 9 juni 2011
onsdag 8 juni 2011
Tema Olle Ljungström
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_Mn5vNMaX8&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hCm8AAFRCdo&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_C1Pn9kQWq0&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BcQmCSwwm4&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82PlIE8FH_w&NR=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6iz1l2Ke_kA&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6G-pAT8O2CI&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ON2JpP_4SeY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hCm8AAFRCdo&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_C1Pn9kQWq0&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BcQmCSwwm4&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82PlIE8FH_w&NR=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6iz1l2Ke_kA&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6G-pAT8O2CI&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ON2JpP_4SeY
fredag 3 juni 2011
tisdag 31 maj 2011
onsdag 25 maj 2011
söndag 22 maj 2011
fredag 20 maj 2011
torsdag 19 maj 2011
onsdag 18 maj 2011
There were three men came out of the west, their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn must die
They've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in
Threw clods upon his head
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn was dead
They've let him lie for a very long time, 'til the rains from heaven did fall
And little Sir John sprung up his head and so amazed them all
They've let him stand 'til Midsummer's Day 'til he looked both pale and wan
And little Sir John's grown a long long beard and so become a man
They've hired men with their scythes so sharp to cut him off at the knee
They've rolled him and tied him by the waist serving him most barbarously
They've hired men with their sharp pitchforks who've pricked him to the heart
And the loader he has served him worse than that
For he's bound him to the cart
They've wheeled him around and around a field 'til they came unto a barn
And there they made a solemn oath on poor John Barleycorn
They've hired men with their crabtree sticks to cut him skin from bone
And the miller he has served him worse than that
For he's ground him between two stones
And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl and his brandy in the glass
And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl proved the strongest man at last
The huntsman he can't hunt the fox nor so loudly to blow his horn
And the tinker he can't mend kettle or pots without a little barleycorn
fredag 13 maj 2011
onsdag 11 maj 2011
Father knows best plus 80-tals synt samt Citizen Kane plus Smiley's People
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuZ6fm5F7bE
måndag 9 maj 2011
torsdag 5 maj 2011
lördag 30 april 2011
Berusa er med vin, med poesi eller med dygd, allt efter behag
Man måste alltid vara berusad. Det är allt: det är det enda det är frågan om.
För att inte känna Tidens förfärliga börda som knäcker era skuldror
och böjer er mot marken, måste ni berusa er utan uppehåll.
Men med vad? Med vin, med poesi eller med dygd, allt efter behag. Men berusa er!
Och om någon gång, på trappan till ett palats, på det gröna gräset i ett dike,
i ert rums dystra ensamhet, ni vaknar, och berusningen redan är förminskad eller försvunnen,
fråga vinden, vågen, stjärnan, fågeln, klockan, allt det som flyr, allt det som kvider,
allt det som rullar, allt det som sjunger, allt det som talar, fråga vilken tid det är;
och vinden, vågen, stjärnan, fågeln, klockan, skall svara er:
»Det är tid att berusa sig! För att inte vara Tidens plågade slavar, berusa er utan uppehåll!
Med vin, med poesi eller med dygd, allt efter behag.
Charles Baudelaire
When Lewellen comes around
And he goes through market town
You'll be on the Celtic Ray,
Are you ready?
When McManus comes around
On his early morning round
Cryin' "Heron 'a' lay"
You'll be on the Celtic Ray.
1st Bridge:
Ireland, Scotland, Brittany, and Wales,
I can hear those ancient voices calling,
"Children, children"
When the coalbrick man comes round,
On a cold November day
You'll be on the Celtic Ray,
Are you ready?
2nd Bridge:
Ireland, Scotland, Cornwall and Wales,
I can hear those ancient voices calling,
"Children, children, children".
Listen Jimmy, I wanna go home.
Listen Jimmy I wanna go home.
I've been away from the Ray too long.
Repeat
I've been away from the Ray too long.
In the early mornin', we'll go walkin' where
The light comes shining through
On the Celtic Ray,
On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way
And said let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day
On Grafton Street in November
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passion's pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay
Oh I loved too much and by such by such
Is happiness thrown away
I gave her gifts of the mind
I gave her the secret signs
Known to the artists who have known
The true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint I did not stint
I gave her poems to say
With her own name there
And her own dark hair
Like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had loved not as I should
A creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay
He'll lose his wings at the dawn of da
För att inte känna Tidens förfärliga börda som knäcker era skuldror
och böjer er mot marken, måste ni berusa er utan uppehåll.
Men med vad? Med vin, med poesi eller med dygd, allt efter behag. Men berusa er!
Och om någon gång, på trappan till ett palats, på det gröna gräset i ett dike,
i ert rums dystra ensamhet, ni vaknar, och berusningen redan är förminskad eller försvunnen,
fråga vinden, vågen, stjärnan, fågeln, klockan, allt det som flyr, allt det som kvider,
allt det som rullar, allt det som sjunger, allt det som talar, fråga vilken tid det är;
och vinden, vågen, stjärnan, fågeln, klockan, skall svara er:
»Det är tid att berusa sig! För att inte vara Tidens plågade slavar, berusa er utan uppehåll!
Med vin, med poesi eller med dygd, allt efter behag.
Charles Baudelaire
When Lewellen comes around
And he goes through market town
You'll be on the Celtic Ray,
Are you ready?
When McManus comes around
On his early morning round
Cryin' "Heron 'a' lay"
You'll be on the Celtic Ray.
1st Bridge:
Ireland, Scotland, Brittany, and Wales,
I can hear those ancient voices calling,
"Children, children"
When the coalbrick man comes round,
On a cold November day
You'll be on the Celtic Ray,
Are you ready?
2nd Bridge:
Ireland, Scotland, Cornwall and Wales,
I can hear those ancient voices calling,
"Children, children, children".
Listen Jimmy, I wanna go home.
Listen Jimmy I wanna go home.
I've been away from the Ray too long.
Repeat
I've been away from the Ray too long.
In the early mornin', we'll go walkin' where
The light comes shining through
On the Celtic Ray,
On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way
And said let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day
On Grafton Street in November
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passion's pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay
Oh I loved too much and by such by such
Is happiness thrown away
I gave her gifts of the mind
I gave her the secret signs
Known to the artists who have known
The true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint I did not stint
I gave her poems to say
With her own name there
And her own dark hair
Like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had loved not as I should
A creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay
He'll lose his wings at the dawn of da
The Fisherman's Blues
Bästa videon jag hittade. Hoppas det är okej med upphovsmannen att jag lägger ut den här trots det familjära i den.
måndag 25 april 2011
Mycket film blir det!
Helgen över, men det meditativa zenbuddistiska trädgårdsarbetet fortsätter i morgon.
Räfsa och stoppa ner eklöv i svarta sopsäckar. Till tonerna av La Mer med Charles Trenant.
Raspigt härligt ljud!
Även hunnit gå 4 à 5 km. med min dotter och hennes hanhund plus min löptik.
Inte duschat sen igår. Eller rakat mig. Går i skitig beige baseballkeps (två år gammal) mot solen, svarta mysbrallor av märke Reebok (min frus innan hon gick ned i vikt?) som är för stora och en fläckig, grå Addidas-tröja, efterlämnande en arom av intorkad deodorant.
Plus Addidas-dojor, svarta. (Fotsvett?)
Min andedräkt är märkt av ett glas single malt och jag är "in good spirits".
Har varit på Rusta i Länna och köpt ny studsmatta med min svärson. Tankat min frus bil med över 60 liter à 14:50 litern. Nästan tusen spänn!
Ser ut som Humphery Bogart i "African Queen", som jag såg igår.
Efter det såg jag lite på Disneys "Alice i Underlandet", köp-dvd.
I förrgår såg jag Truffaut,
Bra.
Såg även Miller's Crossing på TV4 Film - gammal favorit.
I går såg jag även "Rio" i Sickla med min svärson och mina barnbarn och Monika och Viktor,
min styvsons fru och son.
I bilen med svärsonen lyssnade vi på Elvis Presley-cd:
Räfsa och stoppa ner eklöv i svarta sopsäckar. Till tonerna av La Mer med Charles Trenant.
Raspigt härligt ljud!
Även hunnit gå 4 à 5 km. med min dotter och hennes hanhund plus min löptik.
Inte duschat sen igår. Eller rakat mig. Går i skitig beige baseballkeps (två år gammal) mot solen, svarta mysbrallor av märke Reebok (min frus innan hon gick ned i vikt?) som är för stora och en fläckig, grå Addidas-tröja, efterlämnande en arom av intorkad deodorant.
Plus Addidas-dojor, svarta. (Fotsvett?)
Min andedräkt är märkt av ett glas single malt och jag är "in good spirits".
Har varit på Rusta i Länna och köpt ny studsmatta med min svärson. Tankat min frus bil med över 60 liter à 14:50 litern. Nästan tusen spänn!
Ser ut som Humphery Bogart i "African Queen", som jag såg igår.
Efter det såg jag lite på Disneys "Alice i Underlandet", köp-dvd.
I förrgår såg jag Truffaut,
Bra.
Såg även Miller's Crossing på TV4 Film - gammal favorit.
I går såg jag även "Rio" i Sickla med min svärson och mina barnbarn och Monika och Viktor,
min styvsons fru och son.
I bilen med svärsonen lyssnade vi på Elvis Presley-cd:
fredag 22 april 2011
torsdag 14 april 2011
onsdag 13 april 2011
The Pogues - Lullaby of London
As I walked down by the riverside
One evening in the spring
Heard a long gone song
From days gone by
Blown in on the great north wind
Though there is no lonesome corncrake's cry
Of sorrow and delight
You can hear the cars
And the shouts from bars
And the laughter and the fights
May the ghosts that howled
Round the house at night
Never keep you from your sleep
May they all sleep tight
Down in hell tonight
Or wherever they may be
As I walked on with a heavy heart
Then a stone danced on the tide
And the song went on
Though the lights were gone
And the north wind gently sighed
And an evening breeze coming from the east
That kissed the riverside
So I pray now child that you sleep tonight
When you hear this lullaby
May the wind that blows from haunted graves
Never bring you misery
May the angels bright
Watch you tonight
And keep you while you sle
More lyrics: http://www.lyricsfreak.com/p/pogues/#share
Sinead, Kate och Shane
As down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I,
There armed lines of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its loud tattoo
But the Angelus' bells o'er the Liffey swells
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high in Dublin town
Hung they out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittania's Huns with their long-range guns
Sailed in through the foggy dew.
The bravest fell, and the requiem bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Easter-tide
In the springing of the year.
While the world did gaze with deep amaze
At those fearless men but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.
And back through the glen I rode again
And my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men
Whom I never shall see more
But to and fro
In my dreams I go
And I kneel and pray for you
For slavery fled
Oh, glorious dead
When you fell in the foggy dew
måndag 11 april 2011
söndag 10 april 2011
lördag 9 april 2011
Dagbok
Var med barnbarn och dotter samt svärson och såg "Hopp" på Sergel. Parkerade på jobbet.
Betyg: nånstans mellan två och tre. Kan inte bestämma mig. Alltså inte helt värdelös. Eventuellt bra.
http://www.vt.se/kultur/film/filmartikel.aspx?articleid=5875601
Men det är förstås inte det som är huvudsaken. Utan popcorn och själva umgänget.
Vår i luften så in i baljan. Fågelkvitter och kvällsljus. Krokusar och dylikt som sticker upp i rabatterna.
Läst DN efter bion ihop med lite single malt. Bland annat Ben Riach på rödvinsfat. Och Glen Dronnach 20 år.
Kvälls-tv: ev. Carmina Burana kl 20.00 och sedan 21.00 Familjen Kennedy.
Igår såg jag "Ride with the Devil" för tredje gången. Otroligt bra för oss som är kalenderbitare och historiepedanter. Mycket trovärdigt inbördeskrigsdrama med Toby McGuire och Jewel.
Betyg: nånstans mellan två och tre. Kan inte bestämma mig. Alltså inte helt värdelös. Eventuellt bra.
http://www.vt.se/kultur/film/filmartikel.aspx?articleid=5875601
Men det är förstås inte det som är huvudsaken. Utan popcorn och själva umgänget.
Vår i luften så in i baljan. Fågelkvitter och kvällsljus. Krokusar och dylikt som sticker upp i rabatterna.
Läst DN efter bion ihop med lite single malt. Bland annat Ben Riach på rödvinsfat. Och Glen Dronnach 20 år.
Kvälls-tv: ev. Carmina Burana kl 20.00 och sedan 21.00 Familjen Kennedy.
Igår såg jag "Ride with the Devil" för tredje gången. Otroligt bra för oss som är kalenderbitare och historiepedanter. Mycket trovärdigt inbördeskrigsdrama med Toby McGuire och Jewel.
fredag 8 april 2011
Everyday drinking - Kingsley Amis (The Guardian
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/dec/02/kingsleyamis
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/audio/2008/dec/02/digestedread?intcmp=239
Series: Digested read
Previous | Next | Index
Everyday Drinking: The Distilled Kingsley Amis
Publisher Bloomsbury Price £9.99
Share18
John Crace
The Guardian, Tuesday 2 December 2008
Article history
Illustration: Neal Fox
Doctors assure us that wherever you find an elderly, pompous old writer long past his prime you will find a bottle of scotch nearby. If only that were the case. Hilly hid mine after I fell up the stairs when I came home from the Garrick yesterday, and I've had to make do with a bottle of Blue Nun I found in the maid's parlour. Not that I am an alcoholic. Dipsomaniacs are a breed of the lower orders you meet on street corners: people like myself are bon viveurs who happen to like a drink. Or 12.
Everyday Drinking
by Kingsley Amis
Find this on the Guardian bookshop
Search the Guardian bookshop
My primary observation is that drinking makes the daily grind of dealing with people so much easier. You drink a pint of whisky and become the life and soul of the party. You then start insulting people, before sweating heavily and wetting yourself involuntarily. You will usually find that everyone quickly avoids you, thereby relieving you of the need to make conversation. This is why I prefer to do much of my drinking at home. It saves so much time.
There are a great many drinks on the market - spirits, wines and beers - and I've probably drunk them all. Usually in some kind of combination with one another. Mixing cocktails is one of my favourite hobbies. Here's one I invented last week for my great sycophant, Christopher Hitchens.
The Hitch
One bottle of Babycham
One bottle of absinthe
Five shots of Angostura very bitters
Two tablespoons of bile
Two or three glasses of this tincture can give you a lifetime of self-satisfaction.
At some time you will probably be forced to invite people to your home and they may expect a drink. My advice is to offer them the cheapest tipple you can find; my local off-licence does a ghastly Mosel at 70p a bottle. I've never cared for even the best wines, and this should guarantee those poncing off you neither ask for top-ups nor stay long, thereby leaving you more money and time for the pub.
It is well known that only the very dullest of petit-bourgeois minds fail to over-imbibe on a daily basis, so I regard hangovers as a price worth paying for my brilliance. That said, I have found ways of coping with this metaphysical malaise. The first is to fuck someone; preferably somebody else's wife, but if your own is the only one around then she will do. The second is to read a book by that little shit Mart; it will either remind you you're not that bad a writer or give you some sleep.
The one downside to drinking is that it can make you fat. This is remedied by cutting out food entirely and drinking all spirits without mixers. My weight has gone down to 19st with this diet. There isn't much more to say, but as I'm being paid by the column I'd better repeat myself. And now that I'm dead, there's no harm in Bloomsbury repackaging the same material several times in the same collection.
I don't really like wine. Gin is for pansies, though a snifter with water doesn't go amiss. Liqueurs are best left to patent-shoed Wops. Or Americans. Champagne is an overrated girl's drink, though it can be drunk with any food; as such, it's a perfect breakfast drink because a scotch before 10am is very non-U.
I loathe pubs with loud music, but my utmost detestation is reserved for sanctimonious ex-topers. There's nothing worse than a man who doesn't drink. I once tried not drinking for several hours and my wives and mistresses said how dull it was that I was conscious and they were spared removing my soiled trousers from my bloated legs.
Whisky is my favourite tipple, though I recommend never giving it to a Welshman as it's wasted on someone with an IQ of less than 80. Have I mentioned that I'm partial to a Macallan? Gosh is that the time? Hilly's coming to change my IV drip before I fall unconscious again. The publisher can bloody well pad out the rest of the book with a pointless quiz without me.
Q: Who will buy this?
A: No one.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/audio/2008/dec/02/digestedread?intcmp=239
Series: Digested read
Previous | Next | Index
Everyday Drinking: The Distilled Kingsley Amis
Publisher Bloomsbury Price £9.99
Share18
John Crace
The Guardian, Tuesday 2 December 2008
Article history
Illustration: Neal Fox
Doctors assure us that wherever you find an elderly, pompous old writer long past his prime you will find a bottle of scotch nearby. If only that were the case. Hilly hid mine after I fell up the stairs when I came home from the Garrick yesterday, and I've had to make do with a bottle of Blue Nun I found in the maid's parlour. Not that I am an alcoholic. Dipsomaniacs are a breed of the lower orders you meet on street corners: people like myself are bon viveurs who happen to like a drink. Or 12.
Everyday Drinking
by Kingsley Amis
Find this on the Guardian bookshop
Search the Guardian bookshop
My primary observation is that drinking makes the daily grind of dealing with people so much easier. You drink a pint of whisky and become the life and soul of the party. You then start insulting people, before sweating heavily and wetting yourself involuntarily. You will usually find that everyone quickly avoids you, thereby relieving you of the need to make conversation. This is why I prefer to do much of my drinking at home. It saves so much time.
There are a great many drinks on the market - spirits, wines and beers - and I've probably drunk them all. Usually in some kind of combination with one another. Mixing cocktails is one of my favourite hobbies. Here's one I invented last week for my great sycophant, Christopher Hitchens.
The Hitch
One bottle of Babycham
One bottle of absinthe
Five shots of Angostura very bitters
Two tablespoons of bile
Two or three glasses of this tincture can give you a lifetime of self-satisfaction.
At some time you will probably be forced to invite people to your home and they may expect a drink. My advice is to offer them the cheapest tipple you can find; my local off-licence does a ghastly Mosel at 70p a bottle. I've never cared for even the best wines, and this should guarantee those poncing off you neither ask for top-ups nor stay long, thereby leaving you more money and time for the pub.
It is well known that only the very dullest of petit-bourgeois minds fail to over-imbibe on a daily basis, so I regard hangovers as a price worth paying for my brilliance. That said, I have found ways of coping with this metaphysical malaise. The first is to fuck someone; preferably somebody else's wife, but if your own is the only one around then she will do. The second is to read a book by that little shit Mart; it will either remind you you're not that bad a writer or give you some sleep.
The one downside to drinking is that it can make you fat. This is remedied by cutting out food entirely and drinking all spirits without mixers. My weight has gone down to 19st with this diet. There isn't much more to say, but as I'm being paid by the column I'd better repeat myself. And now that I'm dead, there's no harm in Bloomsbury repackaging the same material several times in the same collection.
I don't really like wine. Gin is for pansies, though a snifter with water doesn't go amiss. Liqueurs are best left to patent-shoed Wops. Or Americans. Champagne is an overrated girl's drink, though it can be drunk with any food; as such, it's a perfect breakfast drink because a scotch before 10am is very non-U.
I loathe pubs with loud music, but my utmost detestation is reserved for sanctimonious ex-topers. There's nothing worse than a man who doesn't drink. I once tried not drinking for several hours and my wives and mistresses said how dull it was that I was conscious and they were spared removing my soiled trousers from my bloated legs.
Whisky is my favourite tipple, though I recommend never giving it to a Welshman as it's wasted on someone with an IQ of less than 80. Have I mentioned that I'm partial to a Macallan? Gosh is that the time? Hilly's coming to change my IV drip before I fall unconscious again. The publisher can bloody well pad out the rest of the book with a pointless quiz without me.
Q: Who will buy this?
A: No one.
onsdag 6 april 2011
tisdag 5 april 2011
måndag 4 april 2011
Commenter on You Tube wrote:
Patti wrote this when John Paul I , who had not been Pope for very long, unexpectedly died at about the same time the band was completing work on what was to be the Wave LP (hence the lines "goodbye, sir...goodbye, Papa"), which may explain the "confessional" quality commenter draven26 detected. It was also appropriate that such a nakedly emotional poem closed the album, since Wave marked the end of the original band's recording existence,because you could also interpret it as a goodbye to them.
Wave lyrics:
hi. hi. i was running after you for a long time.
i i was watching you from. . .
actually I've watched you for a long time.
i like to watch you when you're walking
back and forth on the beach.
and the way your the way your cloth looks.
i like i like to see the edges
-the bottom of it-
get all wet when you're walking near the water there.
it's real nice to talk to you.
i didn't. i-i-i-i-i . . . how are you? how are you?
(oh albino)
i saw i saw you from your balcony window
and you were standing there waving at everybody
it was really great because there was about
a billion people there, but when i was waving to you,
uh, the way your face was, it was so, the way your face was
it made me feel exactly like we're
it's not that you were just waving to me, but
that we were we were waving to each other.
really it was really wonderful
i really felt happy
it really made me happy
and. um. i. i just wanted to thank you
because
you
you really really you made me
you made me feel good
and
oh i, it's nothing.
i um. i. well i'm just clumsy.
yeah.
no, it's just a bandaid.
no, it's ok.
oh no, i'm always doing
something's always happening to me
yeah. well. i'll be seein' ya.
goodbye. bye.
wave thou art pretty.
wave thou art high
wave thou are music
wave thou are white
(oh albino)
(oh albino)
wave thou art high
(wave thou art pretty)
wave to the city
wave
goodbye.
goodbye sir.
goodbye papa.
söndag 3 april 2011
lördag 2 april 2011
fredag 1 april 2011
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