Dark Romance #7 ~ "Be With You" by The Jack Rubies

Image info below.

I dunno what I was reading online the other day, but as my eyes took in the words, "...hung, drawn, and quartered," the gears of my brain cranked to life. That'd tickled the memory of some long-forgotten song, one I could have heard only on my most beloved alternative radio station, WLIR (the station that dared to be different!). And in a rush it all came back to me—those words were used in the opening line of Be With You by The Jack Rubies, back in 1987.

I immediately scrambled to the Interwebs to see what I could dig up but, apart from a fan-made video with unpleasantly distorted audio, a fan-made vid with better audio but cut short just after a couple of minutes, and this myspace page which I think must also be fan-made, I got bupkis. There's no official band Web site or page and, alas, it seems the poor lads have faded into obscurity, though the warm words of fellow fans of the tune, devilhoppin and Dan Seeger, and this hater's backhanded praise, have given them some little presence online.

Apparently taking their name from the guy who murdered the assassin of JFK, the British band (::swoons::), led by chocolatey-voiced (woof) singer Ian Wright, melted my heart with Be With You, back in the day. Check out the lyrics:

To be hung, drawn, and quartered
would be uncomfortable and awkward
but a fate I would endure to be with you.

You see, my idea of torture
is not a beating of the harshest order,
but the day when I'll no longer be with you.

And I hope the hour never comes
when you leave the table and I pick up the crumbs.
And I hope I never see the day
when you leave the table and I put your plate away.

To be drowned in murky water
would, of course, make my life shorter
but I would gladly sink below to be with you.

And then it just basically lathers, rinses, and repeats.

The dark romance of it all:

1. Yes, those lyrics are melodramatic (and, to me, adorably goofy), but being hung, drawn, and quartered ain't no walk in the park, y'all. And I'm damned if I don't want the right fella to feel this way about me.*
2. Did I mention the velvety vocal stylings of Ian Wright? (OK, from time to time he dances around the melodic line like it's got the cooties, but still...) ::shudders with dark delight::
3. The band's British—that automatically makes them sexaaaaay. (Don't question me on this; just learn it, live it, and love it!)
4. Hearing Be With You again inspired a dramatic, dark, and romantic series of "scenes" for one of my WIPs, currently titled There Are Monsters.
5. This groovalicious tune took me back to the "me" who spiked her hair, spritzed Poison on her wrists, and dreamed of a future in which she made magic. Given my recent batches of crises, this was a much-needed reminder.

*Even though I'm romantic enough to want to reclaim my long-shelved dreams, I'm pragmatic enough to understand that folks aren't guaranteed soul-mates. I don't believe I've been called by God/fate/the Universe to experience a true, enduring, passionate romantic love, which makes it all the more imperative for me to get on with realizing my creative visions, wouldn't y'all agree?

Because the video I'd found on YouTube had such badly distorted sound, I decided to buy a used copy of the CD (which is out of print, le suck) and see if I could make my own vid (a first for me!). Unfortunately, the audio on the CD, for this song at least, is also distorted. It sounds perhaps marginally better than the one on the 'Tube, so I'm uploading it here. Raspy audio notwithstanding, hope you can enjoy the jangly goodness as much as I do:

Image info: Eternal Spring by Rodin, chillin' at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, pic inexpertly snapped by me.

Sparks ~ Comfort Foods

I reckon this post won't require too much explanation: below are the foods I turn to when I seek (non-alcoholic) comfort.

Buttery pancakes with syrup, sausages, and coffee with half & half.

Mac & cheese, crunchy Cheetos, and Diet Coke (just for the taste of it).

Bacon cheeseburger, salty rustic fries, and a raspberry iced tea.

Godiva's Milk Chocolate Salted Caramel Bar.

But if things are really rough, I bring out Da Big Guns:

Häagen-Dazs Rocky Road Ice Cream

Can you say, "Holy carb overload, Batman!"?

I knew that you could.

;-)


All pictures snapped by me, me, me...

Snarks ~ Happy Belated Birthday!

Your BFF since third grade forgot to commemorate the anniversary of the most blessed date of your birth (in spite of the fact that all 300 of your mutual friends on Facebook totally remembered and posted on your Timeline, which would've most likely turned up on her newsfeed, but whatevs). Three days later, she's scrolling through her Facebook newsfeed and chokes on her half decaf, half regular, one-pump sugar-free vanilla syrup, soy milk latte as the horrid realization strikes. Then she makes haste to your Timeline and posts, "Happy Belated Birthday!"

With all due respect, your friend should be eviscerated for her thoughtlessness.

It's not with her thoughtlessness in missing the day that I take issue (though you may, of course), but with her usage of that God-awful, grammatically incorrect phrase.

Let's take a look at "Happy Belated Birthday!"

What, exactly, "be late" in this scenario? Your birthday? Well, maybe—if something screwy went down with the space-time continuum, and the flux capacitors got all wonky, and time warped to send you your birthday a few days after it should have, by all rights, arrived. But we all know that's not what happened. (Probably.) What happened was that your "friend" had her head up her ass and it's her wish for your happiness on your birthday that was late, not your actual birthday. (Probably.)

So what should she have posted? "Please excuse me having my head up my ass and accept my belated wishes for a very Happy Birthday!" Or, "Belated Happy Birthday wishes to you!" Or, if she simply wanted to show that she cared, (which she obviously didn't, else she wouldn't have missed it), but was in a hurry, "Belated Happy Birthday!"

Because you've probably heard/read the incorrect version SO MANY TIMES, wishing someone a "Belated Happy Birthday!" may seem wrong, even unnatural, to you. I understand. Change can be difficult, even when it's correct. Reassure yourself of the righteousness in wishing someone a "Belated Happy Birthday!" by clicking here, or here, or here.

Feel better now? Good. So do I.

Edited to add: this was totally a hypothetical situation. Also, my birthday's December 21, and I appreciate gifts of gold, Lindt Hazelnut Truffles, and gerbera daisies. ;-)

Streaming Consciousness...

I'm introducing a new feature to my blog, "Streaming Consciousness." I was gonna call it "Random Streams" but there are already way too many blog posts (and blogs) with the word "random" in their titles. So yeah, I'm just going to babble on, without rhyme or reason. (As per usual...)

...you may be wondering about the image on the right. Well, it's there 'cause Burns' dilated eyes remind me of one of my fave Simpsons episodes, the X-Files crossover. Also, I adore potatoes. Fried, mashed, hash-browned, nice and salty, mmmmm... ::licks chops::

...chops, by the way, is short for Pork Chops, a pejorative used to refer to Portuguese folk. You may not know this expression if you've not lived near/around them. Strangely, it's never offended me, as I was inordinately pleased we had any kind of slang term associated with us. Since many folks I run into have no idea what or who the Portuguese are, I guess I prefer a slur to obscurity (as does this blogger). Some Portuguese of my acquaintance consider Pork Chop an endearing epithet and often use it self-referentially (as folks in my family do)...

...my friend Nikki and I saw Paranorman Saturday night. It was a cute, entertaining, and sometimes really gross film. In our opinion, the best of the flick came in the last 10 or 15 minutes, which were dramatic indeed. And I would've taken a different angle in resolving the major conflict of the story (don't want to spoil things here, as the movie's only just opened). Still, it was a bit of Halloweenish fun in balmy August, which only whet my appetite for autumn (as well as for Hotel Transylvania and Frankenweenie, coming to theaters near you at the end of September/start of October, respectively). I'll caution parents of very young children that, though the previews for Paranorman look fairly innocent, it is rated PG and I wouldn't say it's appropriate for children under the age of maybe 9 or 10 (of course, you know your kids' ability to handle violence and gore better than I)...

...I continue to experience surreal dreams. In last night's, I was the object of great sympathy from family and friends as I prepared to marry a man by the name of Carlos de Castro. He was a nice-looking fella (who slightly resembled a friend from the first college I attended and with whom I'm completely out of touch), that I saw at the ceremony only. It was depressing how sad folks'd seemed that I needed to marry this dude, when there was nothing (apparently) wrong with him. Though I don't personally know anyone by this name, I've since learned it's the moniker of a footballer from Uruguay and was reminded it's the name of the Portuguese journalist who was found murdered (and castrated!) in a hotel in Times Square last year. (Quelle bizarre...)

...speaking of bizarre, on Sunday I watched the full six-episode IFC series Bullet in the Face, which I quite enjoyed, though it disturbs me somewhat that I find the lead psycho, Gunter Volger (played by Max Williams) dangerously attractive, if Joker-esque. ::shrugs:: I don't normally go for blonds but I dig this character's hairstyle and, I have to admit, he's got a killer grin (pun intended). It ended on a cliff-hanger, leaving me with the reasonable hope for a second season of this off-kilter action/thriller/comedy...

...I'm researching tattoos; these images have caught my fancy: Celtic Moon, Stars Tribal Tattoo, Sun. Celestial combos also appeal, like this one, or this one. I'm not sure where on my bod to put it/them. I want to be able to see it/them easily without having to contort myself Kama Sutra style (especially without a partner), but don't want the average Joe or Jane to be able to see it/them without express permission from moi. Decisions, decisions...Meanwhile, as I agonize over my as-yet-unchosen-tat(s), I think I'll purchase something less angst-inducing (and probably way less permanent)—the Kindle Keyboard 3G. Any o' y'all use that bad boy? Got any feedback on it for me?

Tuneage ~ Faith No More

For this episode of Tuneage, I'm keeping with the maternal-angst-Emo-Goth-Mom (Lite!) theme of the past two posts. (In a message to a friend on Facebook, I noted my downgrade from "Mom" to "Mom Lite"—less filling, tastes great!) (I don't know what I'm saying, people. I'm just trying to fulfill my contractual Thursday posting obligation.) (There's not an actual contract, but I suspect you already knew that...)

OK, back to the tuneage.

Folks, I don't know a lot about experimental rock/funk metal band Faith No More. I remember that the singer of one of their biggest hits, We Care A Lot, was in the band for only a couple of years before Mike Patton scored the lead role. (Mike Patton = le woof!) I remember when their fish-outta-water video (literally) for Epic caused a big ruckus with animal rights' groups circa 1990. I remember the fall of 1996, in which their album Angel Dust was in heavy rotation on my Walkman (pictured above). What makes that time period especially memorable is that I was taking my one and only French class at a local community college and, to get there, I took a bus that was obliged to pass through (and pick up passengers at) a psychiatric hospital's compound. Yeah, that was a good time, especially around Halloween.

Anyway, I'd made a mix tape with some tunes off this album and off their earlier The Real Thing album, songs which resounded with me in a particular soul-reaching way, and also helped me sort of detach from my woes and laugh at them, a bit. One of the tunes, A Small Victory, I already shared with y'all in this post. Below are the others which seem, to me, apropos, given recent events in my so-called life (am I good at this Emo thing or what?):

Midlife Crisis

Falling to Pieces

And to wrap up this excess of emotion, I want to thank everyone who's chimed in with supportive comments over my past couple of posts—you guys care a lot and I'm truly grateful. Thank you.

We Care A Lot

Part II: The Kid Goes to College...

...and I lose my mind. (Click here if you missed Part I, as Part II won't make much sense without it.) (It may not make much sense, regardless.)

Dad, Star, and I made it home all right (in spite of continuing thunderstorms!), had dinner with Mom, and then my Sis spent another night at chez moi to lend me some (im)moral support. We cracked open our (second) bottle of cabernet sauvignon and re-watched, for the umpteenth time, the movie Warlock (from 1989, starring still super-sexy Julian Sands and Richard E. Grant). (Hubba freaking hubba.) (I would even add wooooooof!)

I got up with Star early-ish Sunday morning, to make her some coffee before she trekked back to Brooklyn, and then I was alone. Before she left, she asked me how I was doing and, taking her meaning, I told her I'd be totally fine. And I really thought it was true. I'd felt nothing but normal through the past few days and, in spite of the nasty storms we'd encountered, took great pleasure in Balthazar's obvious excitement to be embarking on this great college adventure. I really felt OK.

I went back to bed and snored away a couple more hours, dreaming intense and crazy dreams, one of which included my Dad flying me somewhere in a small plane and telling me not to look. Of course, I looked, and he said not to panic. When I saw we were flying over a beach and about to fly out over open water, I completely freaked out. Quelle bizarre. (My Dad ain't no pilot.)

What Balthazar leaves behind...

I got out of bed for realz a little before noon and headed to the bathroom. I passed Balthy's bedroom, now nearly completely vacant and a bit of a mess with moving-away debris and stuff I'm to throw out at some undesignated point in the near future. I thought I noticed a tumbleweed roll by. Then I became completely overpowered by sobs. I spent all of Sunday alternately keening and telling myself this horrible feeling would pass, without believing it for one second. I felt like I was dying. And, God help me, I almost wanted to die, if it meant I wouldn't feel so awful, ever again.

The thing is, it's not just the reminder that Balthy's gone which set me off. It's the fact that I can either pay rent on my apartment (or on any apartment) OR pay the balance of his college fees that aren't covered by scholarships and loans and whatnot. Which means that when my lease expires at the end of September, I'm moving back into my parents' two-bedroom apartment. It's absolutely generous of them to let me, as they know why it's necessary. I love my parents, a whole hell of a lot, and I'm so grateful to them for all they've done, and continue to do, for Balthy and me. But moving back in with them at this stage in my life, living in such close quarters, after running a home of my own...gah.

Finally, I'm facing not only a midlife-crisis, but an identity crisis as well. Without having to provide such nuanced care for my kid on a daily basis, I feel all at sea. (Aha, that dream now makes sense!) I have to redefine who I am and I'm not sure I know how to be anything other than a mom anymore. Geez, I've been a mother for most of my adult life! I know who I wanted to be, before Balthazar came along. And I reckon I should go back to that head space and re-frame those dreams with the wisdom I've acquired over the years. I know this is a wonderful opportunity to recreate myself, but this parting of ways with the Me I've been since May 29, 1995...it's a stunningly painful divide.

All Sunday I felt grief-stricken, with these thoughts of loss and dreaded change roiling around in my mind and gut. I know, intellectually, that this downpour of feeling was the worst of it. As the days go by, I will adjust, I will re-frame, and I will conquer all of this ick. And I will strive, in the immortal words of my favorite band, Duran Duran, to not "...cry for yesterday; there's an ordinary world, somehow I have to find." (Man, actually listening to this song on Sunday night = big mistake.)

And I may get a tattoo. 'Cause, you know, a midlife crisis is the perfect time of life in which to do something terribly permanent which you may some day regret. Well, one's teen years are the ideal time, but that ship has long since sailed, alas...

Part I: The Kid Goes to College...

Balthazar, snoozing through several deadly thunderstorms.

...and I lose my mind...

About a week ago, I asked some friends what, apart from quarters for doing laundry and condoms, I should make sure Balthazar The Kid took with him when he moved up to college. They helpfully answered:

• Lube! Bleach! Cookies!
• a snuggie
• bug spray and blankets!
• a taser
• mace
• Flint, Steel, a Good Knife, pair of good boots, canteen and a water filter
• pepper spray
• Ramen

Of the above, I did procure cookies but figured he could pick up the other items later, if required. (They sell tasers at college bookstores, right?) (And no, I didn't buy him any condoms, as a quick rummage through his armoire's drawers revealed an already ample supply.) (::sighs::)

Last Thursday and Friday were spent picking up the items I did deem necessary (stuff for his dorm room, some clothes and shoes, refilling his asthma meds, etc.). Then Friday night, Balthy did about five loads of laundry and, with the help of my sister, Star (not her real name, obviously), and myself, folded and packed it all. The three of us got to bed around 2:30am.

Later that Saturday morning, we got all the stuff in my Dad's car and he drove us masterfully through two hours' worth of weather hell in upstate New York. The skies were heavy with dark clouds and it rained, often dangerously, a good part of the way to Balthy's new college and sporadically on the way back. At several points, the rain was so intense that we could barely see the faint glow of the red break lights of cars ahead. I have to say, I got pretty Catholic, praying fervently and begging the Virgin Mary, all the angels and saints, and all our loved ones who'd gone on before us to put some good words in with the Lord so He'd get us safely to our destination. And He did. (For which I thank you again, Most Holy of Dudes.)

Star and Balthy, figuring out where to get started with unpacking.

As I noted earlier, my sister, Star, joined us to lend a hand. She graduated from this very same college back in 1998 and, though I'm not positive, I think the fact that Balthy has an alum in his pocket maybe helped his application to this very prestigious art-school-type-place. He attended her graduation back in '98, just a few days shy of his third birthday. Now, his auntie beams with pride to see him follow in her Doc Martens clad footsteps.

The view from Balthy's dorm room.

Star and I helped Balthy unpack and settle in, quickly getting rid of excess bags (which made me crazy to see, floating about the place) and recyclables (which did the same to my Sis). We got to meet Balthy's new roomie, a seemingly nice young man (fingers crossed!), went through the various hoops of Student Accounts and I.D. picture-taking and whatnot, and got drenched in the continuing rain for our troubles. Oh, and we got to experience the cafeteria food, which was rather crap but all-you-can-eat-for-five-dollars (for family and friends; the newbies ate for "free"), so that was some small reward. Sorta.

"...let us say goodnight till it be morrow..."

Then it was time to mix metaphors and leave my no-longer-little birdling to fly under his own steam. (As it were.) I managed to snap a pic of us despite his bitching. FYI, he's not all gelled up, hair-wise, here; it was just so friggin' humid we all dripped with sweat. Which is less attractive than it sounds...

...be sure to tune in tomorrow for Part II, in which, to quote Spandau Ballet, "...to cut a long story short, I [lose] my mind."