Sheesh, what a week. All work and no play is making for a very dull burd indeed. Due to an almighty childcare fail, instead of three nights out, I got precisely none. So I stayed home and did the ironing instead. It’s life Jim but not as we know it.
Next week though, by hook or by crook, I am going to see the Airborne Toxic Event. I took a while to warm to them but now they – and this choon in particular, oh and this one – feature regularly on my morning shuffle to work. And best of all, apparently, they are great live. Can’t wait.
Of course, today is Fool’s Day and I spent the morning fending off the chicklet’s complete repertoire of practical jokes and pretending to be caught out each and every time. Whatever it takes to make him happy.
The Who were the first proper gig I went to. And the laser set to the intro on this track almost stopped even the Apollo balcony from bouncing. Some memories never fade.
… something new
Was I gutted to discover that the wonderful Broken Family Band was no more? Yes.
Was I delighted to find this track from Singing Adams, featuring said Band’s former lead singer front and central. Sure.
Was I humbled to be followed on Twitter by the Judge Reinholds, the new venture for the rest of said defunct Band? Absolutely.
Today, Maya Angelou is 83. There are many reasons to admire the high priestess of African American writing. Her autobiographies are literary triumphs in their own right; the insight they provide to one black woman’s life in the US is a bonus. I’m also tickled by the fact that Maya sits down to write with a glass of Johnny Walker Black Label on her desk, and she never writes without one. And undoubtedly, her sass appeals. What’s not to like about a woman who doesn’t really give a damn for others’ opinions?
But it’s her poems that fill me with wonder. She has a way of making words swing, of asserting her womanliness, of using simple language to construct visionary images. Still I rise is one of my favourites: many happy returns, Ms Angelou, may you live long and prosper!
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
There’s an election on. Whaddya mean, you hadn’t noticed? The burd has, but I have to say, I am pretty underwhelmed so far. Not that it’s stopped me blogging on it all…
But there is something unsettling about a campaign that is so insular, so parochial that the events in Libya, Yemen, Afghanistan, Israel, even Ireland and most of all, Japan raise barely an eyebrow in debates, hustings and daily missives from the parties. Meh is my considered opinion on it all. And this fab new choon from the Builders & the Butchers kinda sums it up. Free and legal to download from the brilliant Mad Mackerel blog.