We’ve moved the Gallagheria weblog to Moveable Type so we can split up the blogging duties amongst us. That should make for more frequent updates, as well.
Last night, the whole family went to Bill Bateman's Bistro in Towson for Rib Night. As the night progressed, and we stripped our racks clean, the soundtrack of the evening started to seep into my conciousness. It was like someone had uncovered my high-school-freshman record collection from 1978 and produced a mix tape….the playlist sticks in my brain like a splinter.
While my adolescence flashed across my ears, we shifted into the game room where my sons demonstrated their pool skills. If “Werewolves of London” had come on at that moment, I would have known someone was playing with my mind…
It's dark at five o'clock
the rain is washing away the leaves
another season flushed into oblivion
leaving piles of flotsam and regret
The sky is grey at eight a.m.
tinting memories of Saturday's sun
with a mask of autumnal finality
I hate Standard Time.
But there's nothing as beautiful
as a child on a leaf-strewn trail
beneath a canopy of maroon and gold
with holes of cold, crisp blue
And there's nothing quite as sweet
as grabbing that moment of mortality
It's fall, it's harvest time
and you're reaping the fruits of summer memory
I found this band, the Weakerthans, on iTunes, and fell in love on the first clip play. This is the sort of discovery I used to make on the radio, back when they played stuff like this. Now, I listen to a public radio alternative station and hear mostly stuff I liked 5 years ago–and that's my best option.
The Weakerthans are from Winnipeg. But they sound like someone did a statistical analysis of the contents of my iTunes library and record collection and created an optimized band ( “3/4 Icelandic”, as their site proclaims) matched specifically to my musical tastes.
And the lyrics…
How I don't know how to sing,
I can barely play this thing,
But you never seem to mind,
And you tell me to fuck off,
When I need somebody to,
How you make me laugh so hard,
How whole years refuse to stay,
Where we told them to back off,
Locked up blindly in a word,
Or a misplaced souvenier,
How the past chews on your shoes,
And these memories lick my ear.
You might roll your eyes at this,
But I'm so,
Glad that you exist.
Some trophies of a weekend hike with Zoe and Paula at the Cylburn Arboretum here in Baltimore:
Tonight, Paula and I went to see the four horsewomen of the acoustic apocalypse: Mary Chapin Carpenter, Shawn Colvin, Dar Williams and Patty Griffin, at the Meyerhoff Symphony Hall here in Baltimore. We were second row, center, and it was like being in a living room with them. See
Asterisk Boy's got an itchy trigger finger/
He's a fat-cats-first-kill-the-rest right winger/
God made him king so he knows he's right/
He never lets his people stay away from a fight/
He tells a lie until he thinks it's true/
Asterisk Boy knows what to do/
he'll lock up anyone who gets in his way/
The voice in his ears tells him what to say/
Four more years of a nasty habit/
He's not going to let anybody else have it/
The money pours in from the corporate coffers/
Blood and profits is what he offers/
I've got the asterisk blues/
I can't win I can only lose/
It's treason they say/
to protest in this way/
I've got the asterisk blues…