The monologue is from a short story, “The Paddle,” but is mostly unintelligible. Sort of Ken Nordine-inspired, some Lynchian music going back there. “Charlie” is the name of my mother’s pied, or mourning dove (pictured above), whose voice is strongly featured.
I have been reading this serial online. It started as something to do while waiting to fall asleep, but some (lost, broken) days, this story has been the best part. I am almost 2/3 of the way through. You’d think zombie stories would have no surprises. But this guy spends a lot of time thinking out the extent of “what if?” Each chapter takes me further along.
He is one of the greatest comic actors alive. A man who’s navigated his career with a peerless instinct for quality and self-respect. The man behind movies—from Caddyshack to Stripes, from Rushmore to Lost in Translation—that seem to have defined a dozen different moments in our cultural life. But he is also a man beholden to no one, not the studios, not the audience, not even an agent. And as he sits down with Dan Fierman to discuss everything from the lameness of Ron Howard to the genius of Kung Fu Hustle, you can be pretty sure he’s going to tell you exactly what he thinks
Dangerous Minds’ Richard Metzger waxes rhapsodic about his favorite obscure Beatles song: “Hey Bulldog”.
Hey Bulldog is, in my never so humble opinion, one of the very best Beatles songs of all, but as it lived on the soundtrack for Yellow Submarine—only half a Beatles album technically speaking, although the George Martin symphonic music that comprises side two is, to my ears, utterly sublime—it’s from an album that most fans don’t tend to own. Furthermore, when the original US theatrical version of Yellow Submarine was released, they cut the song and it wasn’t until the 1999 remastered version came out on DVD, that the Hey Bulldog sequence was restored to the film’s running order.
Ursula’s poster, the image for which I posted yesterday, is part of a summer reading program throughout the US.
So today she discovered this comment (and resulting agreement-rich thread) at The Watchman’s Cry (an End-Times forum (JWs?)):
So my twins went to public school school last year (never again!
), and a couple of days before the last day of school, they brought home a flyer promoting the Public Library summer reading program. As you know, the Public Library is Govt. I was shocked by the picture on it- a man/goat rising out of waves with vacant eyes who is holding a scepter/rod in one hand, a book in his other, and he has three killer whales in front of him (he is standing) tied to the loop of his belt. My husband was also appalled, so he looked it up to realize that this horrendous picture is being promoted at EVERY public Library across the USA! So This image was probably passed out at all the public schools and seared (subliminally) into childrens’ minds. We got this around June 2nd and the oil spill was Aprill 20. It looks like the “beast rising out of the water” as written in Revelation.
Ursula is so proud!
(To be clear, I have no doubt the end-timers actually believe this; I also have no doubt this was in no way her intent.)
The pain was sudden and bright, and I was frozen, eyes squeezed shut, and it was the sound of a car horn that brought me enough to myself to pull into gear and make it to the side of the road and allow the aging Pinto I called Lucy to sputter to silence and let loose a taco salad and a TaB onto the passenger-side floormat.
Next thing I knew the gearshift was grinding my cheek against my back teeth and there was a pounding coming from above me.
Texas. I think that sounds like Texas. I opened my eyes and once they focused I found myself staring at my red NA chip swinging back and forth in front of my eyes, penduluming on the bulky keychain that, I had once been told, would eventually damage the ignition.
“Ma’am? You okay?”
I croaked. I assume it was me. I waved feebly, go away, leave me to my embarrassment. Not as convincing as I thought, because I heard him open the door.
“Ma’am? You’re gonna hurt if you spend much time like that.” I was already hurting, my jaw ached, and my neck was at an unnatural angle.
I felt his hand on my arm, and with the firmness of a chairlift I was pulled upright, blinded by the sun pelting me like thrown gravel through the windshield.
“Maybe you should come with me, I’ll help you get cleaned up and if it sounds good, there’s a good cup of coffee just across the sidewalk, in the shade there.
I guess I blacked out again, because with no transition I could remember I was sitting in a cafe clutching a mug of strong black coffee under my chin, staring blankly out the window at my poor, abandoned Lucy, powder blue and primer gray and bumper held on with bailing wire and crossed fingers. In front of a fire hydrant, dammit.
I took a gulp of the coffee, never mind the pain of scalded tongue and mouthroof, and the bitter blackbean brew took some of the sick away, and my head cleared a little. I had to move the car before I got a ticket – wouldn’t be a good start to my first day in Riverton.
I stood – or started to – and felt woozy enough to sit again, hard, jostling the mug, sloshing a little onto the formica.