Step On A Crack…..Mother’s deserve better.

 

Step on a Crack, Break Your Mother’s Back

For some, stepping on a crack also means freeing a spiritual entity that could break apart one's family. Conversely, some believe stepping on a crack will break a witch's back or the devil's back. A more light-hearted take on this superstition holds fast to the notion that stepping on a crack will cause rain.

Listen up. Who’s been stepping on all the cracks? So much rain. So many broken backs. Not to discount the broken spines. I was very superstitious as a child. Very. I was terrified of anything that might cause harm to my Mother. A real Momma’s boy was I. I would feel such intense guilt if I didn’t eat all the sandwiches she made me. I would see her up at the crack of dawn making sandwiches for everyone. There were seven kids and my Dad. That’s practically a loaf of bread every morning.

Years later, when my dear mother was sitting in her nursing home, saying, “ You know why I am here? Because I can’t remember shit.” They call it dementia, but I blame the sandwiches. And some blame has to go to the many cracks on the sidewalks, that I so carefully tried to avoid.

I still try to avoid them, and my poor Mother has been gone for 5 years. Actually closer to 15, as those last years, she was a shadow of her former self. Still, somewhere inside her plaqued out brain, was still my sweet Mother’s smile and laugh.

And her not so sweet imperious judgement, often rendered with an acidic aside. Hmmph, ughh, and other non-language verbal utterances. Where did she get that from? And me, her fifth son? I have that rush to rash judgieness, that turning up of the nose at the same time as the left eyebrow raises, and the lips curl. Why, sometimes, even my toes curl!

I have traced her lineage back to around 1630, when our ancestor was bandying about with Oliver Cromwell. Taking the piss out of the royals, perhaps in on the plot to kill King Charles 1. Brave Huegenot stock who fled France and the Catholics, hoisting their banner in Royston.

From inside the Royston Caves, drawn by my Great Great Great Grandfather,  the renderings, not the original cave drawings.  Perhaps attributed to the Knights Templar.

So no wonder I get upset, bored, scandalized by this cheap modern simulation that we call life. My mother would concur. “You come by it naturally”, she would often say. That and “Close the door! We aren’t heating all______(whatever town we were in at the point of comment.”

I posted some AI generated photos including some generated from the phrase “Every Mother’s KGB”. It’s a line from my song Something in the Air.

What does it mean? You’re barking up the wrong tree, speaking to the wrong hand. In my Mother’s words,” I don’t have a clue!”

Blame it on Bowie, Burroughs, Brian Gysin. A cut-up.

A friend commented, “ Sure, the mother is the villain, always.”

And who am I to argue? Me, a card carrying member of the patriarchy, that demands to be smashed.

Smash me first I say. Bring me down. Topple me. I deserve nothing less.

For now is the time of Mothers. Now is the time Women Will Rise Up ,and smash our sweet asses. God knows, we deserve it.

Another friend said, “No, you are one of the good ones.”

No.

I deserve to be smashed.

Me and my sneer and my up turned nose.

She’s A Boy. He’s A Girl.

 

 Genda Blenda.  

A love song.  A song about the possibility of love, of change, of finding your voice, of being your true self, of acceptance of the pain of acceptance.  

It’s complicated, like life.  It is an attempt by a straightish guy to give support to my LGBTQ2+ friends and family.  

Because love doesn’t discriminate.  Love will find its way, through the myriad of pronouns, acronyms, capital letters, bars, bathrooms, schoolyard taunts, bullies, past  all the false flags waved by those who love to wave flags. 

“ She’s a boy. He’s a girl. And they want to change the world”. Change the world, not just change pronouns, not just change partners and dance, change the way we think about gender, and bodies, and kinds of love.  This is a call to assert their right to love, life and the freedom to just be.  To be boring if they want.  To be whatever, whomever, forever. 

“Doesn’t matter what they are. ‘Cause everybody is a star.”

“Use your inside voice. It’s an uptight world. Doctor said ‘Don’t worry, Mom.  It’s a Boy. No, it’s a Girl.”

“It’s a tough crowd tonight. We’re playing chicken in the bar.  You brought that damned feather boa. All I got is this goddamned guitar.

Found a hidden map. Lying in your lap. All roads lead to scars, schoolyards, and smoky bars.

She’s a Boy.  He’s A girl. And they want to change the world.” 

https://music.apple.com/ca/album/genda-blenda/1469134715?i=1469134717

Autocorrect, my ass or Wht I mint to say

 

Writing is a gift and a challenge.   A gift when you put the words together in a way that makes your meaning memorable, a challenge when your ability to construct sentences is hampered by your inability to construct sentences.  What I meant to say was, sometimes the words get in the way of expressing the thoughts in your head.  Or rather, the thoughts in your head are interrupted by the voices in your ear, or the foot that keeps placing itself in your mouth, or the new meaning of formerly acceptable words, or how typing with a finger on a tablet, can be autocorrected into complete gibberish.  

Autocorrect, my ass.  I typed that though into the A.I. Image generator, and got the image to my right.  I mean left.   Or today, as I typed a comment on a thread, and was autocorrected five the first time to a misspelling. I lij that.  Fuve minutes of fame. No wonde we are becoming non- verbal.  No wonder you have to add emojis to confirm meaning.  

Scratch my head.  The ponder sign.  Hmmmm.   Couldn’t find a gif.  

“Head-Rub Girl

When your BFF's got drama to discuss, or wants you to confirm if her Instagram caption is good, or brings you into a group chat to help formulate her text messages, Head-Rub Girl's like: "I'm going to pretend to listen to your idiocy because I'm your friend, but I literally can't with this." In fact, Head-Rub Girl "literally couldn't" so many times that it gave her an aneurysm and now she spends 100% of her time at home having the blood massaged out of her brain.”

Have you had the blood massaged out of YOUR brain?  Would that be pleasurable? Massaging blood out of your brain? 

Head-Rub Gurl

What I am trying to say is words no longer matter.

Except when they do.

The wrong words can end a fight, a relationship, a bad day.

The right words can make all the difference.

(Is that even a complete sentence?)

My Soul Mate - Happy Anniversary

What to say that hasn’t already said?  

We met 47 years ago. 

I was still in high school.  

You were a year and a half older.  

Wiser.  

We have been together for 43 years now.

We were kids. We made a child.

We are child owners.  

No one makes me laugh like you,

                                                                                    Only you can melt my bitch face.

You challenge me. You push me.  You refuse to take my crap. You always call my bullshit. 

You never canceled me.  You forgave me.  

It hasn’t been all roses.  But way more roses than not.  You have a ton of patience, waiting for me to grow up. But I treasure all the thorns along with the way as you make me a better person.  I am a better person because of you.  

This picture was taken on the night before we legally married, if I remember correctly, which is about a 50/50 proposition these days.  Our anniversary is July 4.  Independence Day south of the border.  Fireworks. Bombs bursting in air.  Makes it easier to remember. As if I could ever forget.  

I have always been such a lucky guy.  So much lucky.  Winning at the horse races.  Bingo! Say it louder. BINGO!  We have a winner. 

Through the years, the seasons, the snow, the heat domes, the atmospheric rivers, earthquakes, the art, the bands, the friends we have made together, the losses we shared, living with me is not always easy.  I would be the first to acknowledge that.  

But we always have a full glass to raise, to cheer, to toast our good fortune finding each other. Again.  

I remember the night you told me that we had been lovers before in another life.  I was the woman that time.  We have been together for lifetimes, and there will be more lifetimes to come. 

Michelle, my belle.

I AM WOMAN - Let the roaring begin

 

I love hearing new songs, finding new tunes, new favourites, new obsessions and ear worms.  One thing leads to another. This week we have a group of young ladies who love the ladies.  They call themselves Hyaenas, and their song is Little Trophy.   It is gorgeous little pop confection with an “Oh-oh” hook.  The lyrics are driven by desire to be desired, but not too much. An exercise in control.  

Hyaenas are Sophie Heppell (guitar, vocals), Jessie Robertson (bass), Jen Foster (drums) and Luvia Petersen (synth).  Jen plays drums in Rong, another favourite.  

Lyrics are by Sophie. 

LITTLE TROPHY

Take me to the forest, I'm knocking on wood
Just because you want to doesn't mean that you should
You think you've got my whole world but nothing gold can stay
Lose your grip and all the stars will fade to grey
I'm going away
I'm not your little trophy
I'm not your prize to be won
All my work for all your fun
Oh, oh, oh no
I'm not your little trophy
I'm not your prize to be won
All my work for all your fun
Oh, oh, oh no
You lured me in with fish hooks - they're ripping my mouth
Jump this ship before it all starts heading south
That was touch and go there - that was a close call
Another venture in exchange for nothing at all
Nothing at all
I'm not your little trophy
I'm not your prize to be won
All my work for all your fun
Oh, oh, oh no
I'm not your little trophy
I'm not your prize to be won
All my work for all your fun
Oh, oh, oh no
I'm not your badge of honour
I'm not your accolade
Not a soul for you to save
Oh, oh, oh no
I'm not your badge of honour
I'm not your accolade
Not a soul for you to save
Oh, oh, oh no
Don't touch don't look give back what you took
Don't look don't touch you take up too much
Don't touch don't look give back what you took
Don't look don't touch you take up too much
I'm not your little trophy
I'm not your prize to be won
All my work for all your fun
Oh, oh, oh no
I'm not your badge of honour
I'm not your accolade
Not a soul for you to save
Oh, oh, oh no
I'm not your badge of honour
I'm not your accolade
Not a soul for you to save
Oh, oh, oh no
I'm not your little trophy
I'm not your prize to be won
All my work for all your fun
Oh, oh, oh no

“Little Trophy is a call-out against the sexual objectification of women,” the all-female Vancouver band explain. “The song was partially inspired by a previous long-distance relationship Sophie had (she was doing all the heavy lifting to make everything happen while the other was sitting back and reaping the benefits (fun trips and getting laid)), and partially inspired by unwanted sexual advances, judgments or discriminations that almost every single woman has experienced.”

Like I said, the song is a celebration of someone taking control of their own love and desire.  

It pairs well with a new song by one of favourites, Metric, All Comes Crashing.   

Metric is all about hooks, little barbs that grab you, and won’t let you go.   Emily Haines is the the enchantress extraordinaire.

ALL COMES CRASHING

Starting over won't be easy, broken, divided

Split tomorrow from today
Knowing what you know just makes it harder to think straight
Starting over after it breaks
Starting over when the story's got an astounding twist
You better turn that page
When push it comes to shove
We do not fall out of love
We double down, we do not fade

For all I know
This might be my last night
If that's how it goes, there's no one
I would rather be lying beside
When it all comes crashing
When it all comes crashing

Starting over won't be easy
Damage be damned
Please say you love me just as I am
Starting over won't be easy
Misunderstand that pattern
Fear is forcing your hand
Knowing what you know just makes it harder to think straight
Starting over after it all breaks
When push it comes to shove
We do not fall out of love
We double down, we do not fade

For all I know
This might be my last night
If that's how it goes, there's no one
I would rather be lying beside

If all we knew
Came crashing down tonight
I'd be with you, and there's no one
I would rather be dying beside

When it all comes crashing
All comes crashing down
When it all comes crashing
All comes crashing down

We'll come crashing down together
Don't expect to live forever
We'll come crashing down together
If it all comes crashing down tonight
We'll come crashing down together
Don't expect to live forever
We'll come crashing down together
When it all comes crashing, crashing, crashing

For all I know
This might be my last night
If that's how it goes, there's no one
I would rather be lying beside

If all we knew
Came crashing down tonight
I'd be with you, and there's no one
I would rather be dying beside
When it all comes crashing
When it all comes crashing
When it all comes crashing
When it all comes crashing

More girl on top, taking the reins of the relationship.  Someone has to know what they are doing here.

Which then leads us to Angel Olsen and her song All The Good Times.  It has a slow boil, layering detail on detail until it finally. At the very end of the song, gets to the title sentiment. 

ALL THE GOOD TIMES

I can't say that I'm sorry
When I don't feel so wrong anymore
I can't tell you I'm trying
When there's nothing left here to try for

And I don't know how it happened
We've both abandoned the reason we used to believe
Was it love that we shared when we easily cared?
Now it's impossible to conceive

I don't know who can see you
If you've ever learned how to let someone in
Well, I've tried to comе find you
But I just don't know where to begin

If you'vе ever been open, there's no way of knowing
With the way that knowing you has been
Was it always so broken? If these thoughts were spoken
Would it bring us together again?

I can't say that I'm sorry
When I don't feel so wrong anymore
I can't tell you I'm trying
When there's nothing left here to try for

Well, I can't be the one to keep holding you back
If there's something you're missing, then go right ahead

I'll be long gone, thanks for the songs
Guess it's time to wake up from the trip we've been on
So long, farewell, this is the end
And I'll always remember you just like a friend
And the way that you said, as heavy as lead
"You've always known how to get straight to my head"

Thanks for the free ride
And all of the good times
Thanks for the free ride
And all of the good times

The end and title is of course 

“You've always known how to get straight to my head"

Thanks for the free ride
And all of the good times
Thanks for the free ride
And all of the good times”

Are we back in Little Trophy land?  When the end finally comes, did it “all come crashing down”?

As a 64 year old male (him/he) in a 43 year relationship, I’m not sure why I am drawn to the joyful angst pop of young lesbians. I admit that there is a crush on Emily Haines, so there is that. 

Then a trolling of my daughter’s playlist ( She has very cool taste in music- completely her own take.  I am sensing some slight influences from her pops, but I give her all the credit. 

She had been listening to a band calledOver The Rhine, a duo of guy and girl, going back a few years.  This song is from 2007, so a blast from the past.

LET’S SPEND THE DAY IN BED

Let's spend the day in bed, yeah, that's what I said
Let's lie down, draw the shades
Ditch the plans we made
Rest your lovely bones and just stay home

Turn off the telephone, picnic on the sheets
Toss the dogs some treats, rub each other?s feet
We're not ashamed of a little lazy love
Till we're through, I'm gonna spend the day in bed with you

let's spend the day in bed on our very own bed spread
A pajama holiday
Catch a black and white matinée
Spoon feed these new daydreams and just stay home

We’ll read Shel Silverstein, 'Where The Sidewalk Ends'
Smile about old friends, try to comprehend
One single day, no work and only play
Kick off your shoes, I'm gonna spend the day in bed with you

Life’s a drag, we’ll get stoned on love
Stoned on love, just stay home
We’ll get stoned on love, stoned on love

We need a groove that's all our own and we?ll get stoned
Just stay home
We’ll get stoned on love, stoned on love

Till we're through, I'm gonna spend the day in bed with you

let's spend the day in bed, forget all that I said
We’ll eat your favorite pie, ice cream on the side
Lie here a la mode and just stay home
Just stay home, just stay home

When life’s a drag, we’ll get stoned on love
Stoned on love, just stay home
We’ll get stoned on love, stoned on love

We need a groove that's all our own and we?ll get stoned
Just stay home
We’ll get stoned on love, stoned on love

When life’s a drag, we’ll get stoned on love
Stoned on love, just stay home
We’ll get stoned on love, stoned on love

We need a groove that's all our own and we’llget stoned
Just stay home
We’ll get stoned on love, stoned on love
Just stay home

So all female voices.  And then the theocratic Supremely Stupid Court, SCOTUS, which sounds like a rash that one gets when playing too much with your scrotum, wipes out 50 year’s of progress, by killing Roe v. Wade.  My mother is rolling in her grave, which is the rolling sea, so all comes crashing.  

“ I am woman hear me roar.”  Let the roaring begin.  

Consider the Oyster

The oyster may be the most sublime food.  They are definitely one of most sensual.  More than food, they are passion and metaphor. 

On the outside, we feel sharp, craggy calcium carbonate layers of oyster shell, self created by secreting proteins and minerals from their mantle extracellularly, the oyster constantly growing new layers of shell, their physical presence enlarging as they grow.

This hard and dangerous exterior holds its secrets tightly, as opening an oyster, ah shucks, is an art form itself.  There are specific tools needed, the oyster knife, wielded by the expert shucker, old Shucky, careful, you may want to wear a glove made of metal mesh, otherwise risking cuts from the shell or a slip of the knife. But once the vise-like grip of the muscles, holding its inner secrets intact is broken, a salty brine weeps. 

Inside we feel a shell so smooth and porcelain. You may even find a pearl! And then there is the oyster itself.  Shimmery, moist, so many layers of feminine deliciousness.  This oyster object of desire, slurp worthy, your tongue wants to explore the folds and lips dare I say of the smooth little button of muscle at its centre.

Or you might just want to slurp it dow, drawing it into your receiving mouth, letting it slide down your throat, the oyster and the brine, accented with the tang of lemon or perhaps a bit of vinegar, a splash of hot sauce or a mignonette, which translates roughly into "cute, small, and tasty”. 

I was reading a Substack post today from Alicia Kennedy, about her vegan relationship with the oyster- she makes an exception for this bivalve.  And I wanted to comment on her page with my most memorable experience with oysters, but I was shut down by her Subscriber paywall- no money, no comments welcome.  

So here we are, inside my own non- paywall.  Here, my friends, is my memory of the night of Oysters and Stout where I met the infamous Oysterman, Brent Petkau. 

Brent is a mountain of a man, big beard, big laugh, and a generous knowledge of all things oyster.  He is the Oysterman.  https://vimeo.com/32602676?embedded=true&source=vimeo_logo&owner=3637760

It was a special evening of oysters and sampling of Stouts, with Brent supplying the oysters, and the liquor store and my friend Craig Noble supplying the stout and information on how to pair with oysters.  

I think I ate about 25 oysters, most were smallish, and the stouts were delicious, and at the end, I had sort of shocked myself with how many I had consumed.

But it was more than eating lots of oysters, it was an ingestion of knowledge of oysters and stout, most of which is forgotten.

Growing up, I remember some of my family having oysters, normally cooked, breaded and pan fried, how an old brother disparagingly compared the oyster to another bodily fluid, and how that aversion to oysters later became a desire to devour.

Which brings us to the oyster loaf, which is a Mills family tradition of hollowing out a loaf of french bread and adding back in pan fried breaded oysters, bacon, tomato and hopefully something green but I'm not totally sure.   Sort of our Pacific Northwest take on the Po' Boy.  It is then cut into slices, and consumed with much alcohol.   Whether it was the oysters or the alcohol that later lead to laughter then tears, is unclear.   Most likely the alcohol.  

Downtown!

 

I remember the first time I saw Active Dog at the Windmill.  I was Transfixed by the mesmerizing Bill Shirt- my birthday brother, one of my favorite front men of the day.  LOVED the camp slam classic Downtown cover, where tongue firmly in cheeks, Active Dog extolled the virtues of exodus.

We all escaped our suburban hells and went downtown

Where all the lights are bright

Downtown 

Everyone’s waiting for you. 

My heartfelt thanks to Bill Shirt (Scherk)  - Patron saint of the suburban rats.

Out on the Frontier by Los Popularos    (I can’t make out all the words, but these jump out:)

Out on the frontier

Machines are screaming in my ear

I’ve come to lend a hand 

To save this wretched land

It’s easy being happy these days

Life’s like that

Everyday the scene is the same

As we work we look up 

Nothings clear

A message comes and but you can’t hear

The hopes alive

A promise dies

And you smile 

If this link works, you can hear 

https://soundcloud.com/bill-scherk/out-on-the-frontier-los-popularos?utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing