To misquote Randy Newman: I love LJ!
Had one of those once-in-a-lifetime evenings on Friday, thanks to Harmony Trowbridge, Adam Walters and Miss Lenni Jabour.
Oh, and their concert at the London Music Club was great too: new songs all round that I already can’t wait to hear again, two lovely reminiscences about New York, an outfit to die for (because it’s all about the outfits, darlings) and a wacky sidestep into Outkast territory. If you were there, you know.
For some reason the previous post doesn’t appear to be showing up in any of my feeds. Wonder if there’s something about it specifically or if it’s always the most recent post that’s missing….
Somehow it had been marked as private the last time I edited it. No problem.
This is what we stand for: justice, truth… and the value of a single human being.
Thanks to the wonderful, expert help of Nichole Coolledge at Bryenton’s Furniture over the last week, I will soon be taking delivery of a Tempur mattress. Nichole is the kind of person I love to deal with: knowledgeable about what she’s selling, informative without being pushy, friendly, understanding and sympathetic, and above all genuine.
I’ve also dealt with owner Bob Bryenton several times over the last ten or fifteen years and have always been impressed with his willingness to take time—sometimes a couple of hours at a stretch—to listen to what I’m looking for and explain the relative merits of his products. When I walked in today, probably three years after the last time I saw him, he immediately knew who I was, and we talked for a bit as if I’d been there just yesterday.
Nichole and Bob are the reason that more than half of the furniture in my condo is from Bryenton’s, a store that’s 100 kilometres and more than an hour’s drive away. It seems about time to recommend them, and I do so highly and with many thanks.
To Mindy at Robinson Hall: I’m sorry. I’m disgusted by the abuse you were subjected to tonight by the group of former friends I was with, and I hope my belated apology was passed along to you by the woman who took the message.
To Vimmy, Christine, Marsha, Lenni, Alex, Harmony, Kristin, Stephanie, Nancy, Amber, Lydia, and every one of the other female friends and acquaintances I respect and cherish: I’m sorry for not standing up for you (collectively) when I had the chance.
To one of the women above in particular: I’m sorry for venting. You’ve been nothing but kind and generous since the first day we met, and recently I’ve done nothing but complain to you. I’m honoured to count you as a close friend, and I’ll try to do better to hold up my end of that friendship… even, and especially, if it means holding my tongue about certain matters.
In other news, Lenni Jabour and Harmony Trowbridge are coming to London! (Can you tell I’m excited? ’Cause I’m excited!) They’ll be in the front room of the London Music Club at 9pm on April 28, and if you don’t come to fill the joint I’ll know you don’t really love me after all.
No one writes a love song like Weird Al Yankovic.
You make me wanna hide a weasel in my shorts
You make me wanna phone home
You make me wanna write a dozen book reports
Then pack myself in styrofoam
Sometimes you make me want to build a model of the Eiffel Tower out of Belgian waffles
He writes for, and as, the shy-yet-infatuated guy that she doesn’t know exists:
How can you ignore me when you know that I can’t live without you
I have to go through your garbage just to learn more about youMelanie, ooh
Oh sweet Me-he-he-helanie
Why won’t you go out with me
He writes lyrics that can be compared to none less than William Shakespeare:
You’re sort of everything I ever wanted
You’re not perfect, but I love you anyhow
You’re the woman that I’ve always dreamed of
Well, not really, but you’re good enough for now
And from time to time he’s just plain sweet:
Do you remember sweet Michelle
She was my high school romance
She was fun to talk to and nice to smell
So I took her to the homecoming dance
…but in that sweetness there’s an undercurrent of the sort that led to movies like Carrie…
Then I tied her to a chair and I shaved off all her hair
And I left her in the desert all alone
Well sometimes in my dreams
I can still hear the screams
Oh I wonder if she ever made it home
The ultimate Al love song, though, isn’t a love song at all. Back in high school a lipsync version won Bob Cates, Tony Gryner, Ian Coulthard, Sarah Dodge and me first prize in the North Lambton Secondary School air band competition. (Sadly, all of the photos and video of the event were destroyed in a curiously specific set of fires.) That song?
Aaahh
AaahhWell I heard that you’re leavin’ (leavin’)
Gonna leave me far behind (so far behind)
‘Cause you found a brand new lover
You decided that I’m not your kind (aahh…)So I pulled (I pulled) your name out (name out) of my Rolodex (oohh…)
And I tore all your pictures in two
And I burned down the malt shop where we used to go
Just because it reminds me of you (dippity dippity doo, yeah)That’s right (that’s right) you ain’t gonna see me cryin’
I’m glad (I’m glad) that you found somebody new
‘Cause I’d rather spend eternity eating shards of broken glass
Than spend one more minute with youI guess I might seem kinda bitter
You got me feeling down in the dumps
‘Cause I’m stranded all alone in the gas station of love
And I have to use the self-service pumpsOh, so honey, let me help you with that suitcase
You ain’t (you ain’t) gonna break my heart in two
‘Cause I’d rather get a hundred thousand paper cuts on my face
Than spend one more minute with youI’d rather rip out my intestines with a fork
Than watch you going out with other men
I’d rather slam my fingers in a door (yeah)
Again and again and again and again and againOh, can’t you see what I’m tryin’ to say, darlin’…
I’d rather have my blood sucked out by leeches (leeches)
Shove an icepick under a toenail or two
I’d rather clean all the bathrooms in Grand Central Station with my tongue
Than spend one more minute with youYes, I’d rather jump naked on a huge pile of thumbtacks
Or stick my nostrils together with crazy glue
I’d rather dive into a swimming pool filled with double-edged razor blades
Than spend one more minute with youI’d rather rip my heart right out of my ribcage with my bare hands
and then throw it on the floor and stomp on it ’til I die
Than spend one more minute
With youAaaahhh ooooo
And with that, nothing more needs be said.
hehe peter- you take things so seriously!
(Part 27 of a series.)
Musicians that sing frayee-end; cf. Damien Rice.
I decide to spend the day saying ‘yes’ to everything. Do I need a transfer, yes. Do I take milk, yes. Would I like to leave a message, yes. Would I like a business or residential listing, yes. Yes yes.