Do you want to take me cruising on an ocean liner to places I looooooong to see…
Well, with my champagne taste and your beer bottle pockets, don’t forget to write me when you get there in your row-boat when you’ve paddled across the sea without me.
Do you see us dining on caviar and pheasant with decedents of royalty. Well with my champagne taste and your beer bottle pockets, I’ll be having pheasant while you’re dining with the peasants dunking donuts in a diner without me.
You said you have ambition to make my dream come true, well brother you just keep right on wishing and all of my dreams will come true… without you.
Do you see me in a Jaguar with all the accessories and one of those accessories is YOU? Well with my champagne taste and your beer bottle pockets, take back your Jaguar accessories etcetera and drive back to your dreamland without me.
And if I wanted diamonds you’d offer me breakfast at tiffanies and luncheons at Cartier’s you’d recommend. Well with my champagne taste and your beer bottle pockets you will have to work-on something better than a zircon because your diamonds is this girl’s worst friend.
You said you’d promise me anything to make my life a feasssssssst. You didn’t give me anything, not even Arpege you beast!
And it wouldn’t surprise me if a lady like Godiva had someone like you to give her the stole.
For with her champagne taste and your beer bottle pocket when she couldn’t get those dresses she just let down all her tresses and forgot she was a lady after all.
So if you want me to become apart of your permanent employ, before my champagne fizzles come up with the real McCoy. Show me you can separate the MAN from the BOY and bring me a constant life of champagne taste.
So, I’m dating Marilyn Monroe. We’re living together, actually. Right now, she’s sitting on the white couch with the black stains, watching me write this. What are you writing? she wants to know. A love letter, I say.
She’s eating grapes. She’s really into them right now. One by one, she sucks them into her mouth with a little pop, crushes them between the whitest of teeth with the gentlest of violence. What’s the opposite of fruit? she wants to know.
I don’t know, I say. Meat? She purses her lips, considering. No, she says. I don’t think there is an opposite of fruit.
We are both girls, true, but it’s like saying that a nectarine and a watermelon are both fruit. She’s a little tart rolling over the tongue, creamy; I crumble in the mouth, wet and rough.
She skips over to the bed, almost invisible with her cream skin on cream satin, hair the color of headlights at night. Do these sheets make me look fat? she asks. She’s serious. How do you know if you’re beautiful? Are you only beautiful if someone else thinks you are? And what does it cost? She almost only ever speaks in questions.
Last week, she was obsessed with cantaloupe and Eartha Kitt. As I got ready for work, she jumped up and down on the bed, singing, I Wanna Be Evil. When I came home, she’d tried to dye her hair black. The dye was spattered on the walls, the couch, the floor, sticking to everything but her hair, which shone like a canary in a coal mine. It didn’t work right, huh, she asks. Do you hate it? Her face crumples. I hate it, she says. I rubbed toothpaste on her hair until it was back to blonde, and we ate cantaloupe in bed, gently scooping the calm flesh into our mouths.
Stop writing. Come talk to me, she says.
It’s hard being dead, she says. I never look any older. I want to know what I really look like.
I can’t fix it for you, I tell her. I think that this is love but it feels just like helplessness, I say.
What is the opposite of helplessness? she asks. What is the cost of death? She takes the phone off the hook. A recording plays: If you’d like to make a call, please — she wants to know, if you leave a phone off the hook, how long does the busy signal play for before the line goes dead? She drops the phone receiver on the bed. Is there a time limit to how long you can be happy for? The phone blares its staccato call through the twilight. This is always the last thing I ever hear, she says, as we taste the fruit and meat of each other’s mouths, as I dissolve into her kiss.
He played himself Didn’t need me to give him hell He could be cool and cruel to you and me Knew we’d put up with anything I want to hurt him I want to give him pain I’m a roman candle My head is full of flames I’m hallucinating Hallucinating I hear you cry Your tears are cheap Wet hot red swollen cheeks Fall alseep I want to hurt him I want to give him pain I’m a roman candle My head is full of flames I want to hurt him I want to hurt him I want to hurt him I want to give him pain And make him feel this pretty burn
“Beginning in the late 1930s with the wild popularity of swing jazz and the jitterbug, continuing into the “jive generation” that fought World War II, through the beats and hipsters of the 1950s, the Sixties’ mainstream youth and hippies alike, into the pervasive patois of hip-hop, American youth slang has borrowed consistently and generously from the slang of the black American urban experience.”—Do You Speak American . Words That Shouldn’t Be? . Sez Who? . Slang | PBS
“Researching the technology in the era before infrared flash units, he found that Kodak made infrared flashbulbs. Mr. Yoshiyuki returned to the park, and to two others in Tokyo, through the ’70s. He photographed heterosexual and homosexual couples engaged in sexual activity and the peeping toms who stalked them.”—Sex in the Park, and Its Sneaky Spectators - New York Times
Record Club is an informal meeting of various musicians to record an album in a day. The album chosen to be reinterpreted is used as a framework. Nothing is rehearsed or arranged ahead of time. A track is put up here once a week. The songs are rough renditions, often first takes that document what happened over the course of a day as opposed to a polished rendering. There is no intention to ‘add to’ the original work or attempt to recreate the power of the original recording. Only to play music and document what happens.
Monkey see, monkey die Laminate your face and paste it up into the sky ‘Cause it’s squalid and it’s solid And it’s completely rancid and beautiful Like a forcefield of multiplying meat Cut a hole in the floor to see Just how close to hell we’re standing Time shoots forward in your skull Scattered to the four winds, chucked in the bucket Riding lampost, moldy toast, excitement level: zero Rock the casbah, bring the noise Amplified dishwashers exploring the boring to the core People with cordless personalities Running around in new wave bionic jogging suits California white boy sound Rocket-powered and nailed to the ground New age, old age, totally lame Straight to the middle of the road Rewind the tape, play the whole thing backwards With the sound completely turned off
Last time I saw you, you were on stage Your hair was wild, your eyes were red And you were in a rage You were swinging your guitar around. Cause they wanted to hear that sound But you didn’t want to play. And I don’t blame you.
I don’t blame you.
Been around the world, in many situations Been inside many heads in different positions But you never wanted them that way. What a cruel price you thought that you had to pay. And that for all that shit on stage.
But it never made sense to them anyway, Could you imagine if when they turned their backs They were only scratching their heads. Cause you simply deserve the best. And I don’t blame you
They said you were the best, But then they were only kids Then you would recall the deadly houses you grew up in Just because they knew your name, Doesn’t mean they know from where you came What a sad trick you thought that you had to play. But I don’t blame you
They never owned it And you never owed it to them anyway.