A Bit Personal
I wrote this recently for the new collaborative blog project to which I am contributing called Fun & Heartbreak. Some of your favourite bloggers are involved and it sounds like fun.
It’s very long and very, very personal so you won’t be seeing things like it on Song, by Toad anytime soon, but if any of you are that interested then a story of melodramatic heartbreak awaits, the likes of which Mills & Boon can only dream of.
And it gives me a chance to post one of my all time favourite songs, ever:
Tom Waits – Fish & Bird
This one seems kind of appropriate as well:
Beck – Guess I’m Doing Fine
You should all be off for a good cry after those two.
400 miles, huh?
For 12months+ now I have been battling nigh on 5000.
Sometimes the pesky arrow hits the bull arse smack in the centre, but the bull is a painted on the tail of a fucking great big 747 headed North & you’re stuck in the standstill the wrong side of check in.
Apologies for the Airport analogy, but needs must.
DC
Thanks for TW’s ‘Fish & Bird’. Once I read the lyrics, I realized it’s one of the saddest and most beautiful song Waits has ever done.
5000? The States, one assumes?
And indeed, the lyrics to the song itself are just plain bloody lovely. Heartbreaking, but lovely.
Tell me old boy, was it the first time you discovered that paper hankies have more than one purpose in life??
Good grief no, I used to be a right girl’s blouse. Pathetic it was. It took me until about the age of twenty to grow anything even vaguely resembling a pair of balls.
Not the States, no. Canada. Most Westerly of all Westerly points, too; & as if to rub it in, the best airline (i.e. cheapest, nicest treating, most comfortablist all the way there non-stop 12hr flight) is a little nugget called Canadian Affair.
Squeezes the cardiac muscles, so it does.
Tell me, how often were you weekend slouching about in your yesterday pants & grubby milk-stained t-shirt, eating cereal & buttered toast three times a day, only popping out for another bottle of Vino Collapso?
DC
Nah mate, we were fucking serfisticated we wos. We went out to places, walked and so on. Generally there’d be a concerted effort to get out of bed at about two in the afternoon, then some pottering about, then we’d settle into a restaurant for about six hours. Same again the next day.
I meant when you was blubbering & eating your own nose gross in between staccato breath’d sentences to your ma about how you’ll never find another one like it.
No, not really. The worst thing for me was either going out getting plastered, pulling and waking up feeling disgusted, no matter how gorgeous and lovely the lady in question; or alternatively coming home late and drunk and proceeding to get infinitely, infintely more drunk whilst punishing my speakers to the point of destruction.