Tuesday, June 17, 2003
(I wrote a rant in '99)
I feel like a poetry slam, or just singing a song with that new Afro-Celt group, fresh out of Poland, the Aronaberries:
“Nobody Else Is Doing Anything, So Why Should I?”
Forget everything you’ve heard about the beebees or the mindless bougeoisie
Let’s get way, way down now and do the yuppie drivel bop
We’ll take my Audi TT
And talk of Testarosas
As we blaze down the freeway
Like we saw in motion pictures
I’m a telegenic girl
With my photogenic guy
When we get to the hop
I know just what to do
I jump out of the car
Without using the door
I’ll toss my keys
Towards the striped vest
“It’s the mock two-door.”
He snatched the keys right from the air.
Quick eye-hand man
And palm extended prompted me for more
The “valet” can catch a keyring but not on or up
We might laugh about him later
Over our imported water
Seven bucks an hour in a million dollar place
Seven bucks a pop for twizzled Perrier
It’s like fast cars through Harlem
Like Scotty’s cruise to Chinatown
A steady stream of one-upping
Bunny-hopping yuppie thing
Repeating quick one-liners that he heard
From a deejay or a veejay
Dreamed up by some background clown
Before it filtered down
They’d have fallen over to tell me
If I had bothered to ask
The raducchio’s fresh from harvest
Speeded by DirectXpress
From “El Socorro’s Numero Diez y Uno Mucho Exploito-Organic Farm”
Where the Yap without a green card
Clips eye-appealing frou frou at the crack of dew-filled dawn
Six bucks an hour in a million dollar place
Eleven bucks a pop for the exotic mixed greens plate
We can laugh about her later
Over our “import” arugala
I mean, Gaggia me with a spoon!
I want me a Yuppie clown juice
That’s right! “One Raspberry Lager here.”
What’s the latest foodstuff, just listen to the music
I recognized a Son and then a cha-cha-cha
“And one cubano, please”
Listen! I know that lead-in, sounds like Boringa!
There’s some kind of norteno wheezing through the perforations in the mini-speakers now
“It’s Boringa!”
Listen now, they’re gonna start to sing-a
(Boringa, Boringa, Boringa ...
We’re just another Tex-Flex Band ...
Absorbing all the words and rhythms...
That we sponge up throughout the land ...
We squeeze “puta mujeres” into our lyrics ...
Because we think you’ll understand ...)
“The big bass guy purpled his hair
With beets when he played in a punk-rock band”
“Take a look over at the bar
They’re doing Torino slams”
“Whoa, babes, soak it to me!”
“I’m complex, I’ve done much more than you
And if you knew me at all, you’d know I’m more interesting, too
Hello, Heinrich Boll would clue you
We’re just the sum of what we do
These are called experiences, it’s a collectivity kind of thing.”
And I e.s.p. the clues
He needs a cigar to match the dots on his tie
Maybe I’ll get him a handsewn shirt, triple-stitching on the cuffs,
A pale cream silk yellow like they did in Portobello
We can say what we want to whoever we please
We’re tongue fu warriors and we can lick them with a tease
“You look great since you started working out”
(“Oh, that’s actually his wife’s money”)
“I really love your shoes”
Take a deep mental breath and get ready to go real renaissance on them
Spell it out for them in those big blank alphabet blocks
It's their fast-talking compressed syllable sound byte world spinning fast, then fast some more
Fast, fast, fast, fast, fast and I mean fast!
Full to the brim with fast-talking, quick-clipping, busy-paced guys and dolls
Who can’t waste their and don’t have time for “this”
(“That pancake foundation when applied with a puttyknife really disguises the crowsfeet”)
“You have such bright little eyes”
(“He uses such bad language when he’s coding, it’s like he forces constant downgrades”)
“Oh, that’s such bad art you do, it’s potentially harmful to the viewer”
I’ll be your chunky monkey to your cherry garcia, babe
You my sweet Wussy-Boy and I’ll be a Wussy-Boy’s girl
Together, we can rule the world
I’m a photogenic girl
And you’re my telegenic guy
Nobody’s smarter than anyone else now
And each person just more important than the next
Let’s esteem our desires above the rest
I’ll run interference for you
And we’ll survive any test
We’ll have insulation with the highest R-factor rating
We’ll have intercoms on the security gates
We’ll have guards in humbers patroling the estate
We’ll have answering machines to screen our calls
We’ll have flat tv screens hung on our walls
We’ll have satellite dish with the sound turned down
We’ll have furnishings in Italian shades of light vogue brun
We’ll have a lap pool and a water feature so far above the ground
We’ll have to drown ourselves in realistic sense-surround sound
We’ll have to wonder should we bother to even educate the young
We’ll have to ponder how the Cassini will eventually go wrong
We’ll have to laugh when some gangsters finally get the bomb
We’ll never rent new movies, each one’s worse than the last
We’ll play our new DVD DEVO, an old song, “Big Mess”
(“Big mess, we’re a big mess, we’re in a big mess, it’s a really big mess...”)
¶ 6/17/2003 08:04:00 PM
I feel like a poetry slam, or just singing a song with that new Afro-Celt group, fresh out of Poland, the Aronaberries:
“Nobody Else Is Doing Anything, So Why Should I?”
Forget everything you’ve heard about the beebees or the mindless bougeoisie
Let’s get way, way down now and do the yuppie drivel bop
We’ll take my Audi TT
And talk of Testarosas
As we blaze down the freeway
Like we saw in motion pictures
I’m a telegenic girl
With my photogenic guy
When we get to the hop
I know just what to do
I jump out of the car
Without using the door
I’ll toss my keys
Towards the striped vest
“It’s the mock two-door.”
He snatched the keys right from the air.
Quick eye-hand man
And palm extended prompted me for more
The “valet” can catch a keyring but not on or up
We might laugh about him later
Over our imported water
Seven bucks an hour in a million dollar place
Seven bucks a pop for twizzled Perrier
It’s like fast cars through Harlem
Like Scotty’s cruise to Chinatown
A steady stream of one-upping
Bunny-hopping yuppie thing
Repeating quick one-liners that he heard
From a deejay or a veejay
Dreamed up by some background clown
Before it filtered down
They’d have fallen over to tell me
If I had bothered to ask
The raducchio’s fresh from harvest
Speeded by DirectXpress
From “El Socorro’s Numero Diez y Uno Mucho Exploito-Organic Farm”
Where the Yap without a green card
Clips eye-appealing frou frou at the crack of dew-filled dawn
Six bucks an hour in a million dollar place
Eleven bucks a pop for the exotic mixed greens plate
We can laugh about her later
Over our “import” arugala
I mean, Gaggia me with a spoon!
I want me a Yuppie clown juice
That’s right! “One Raspberry Lager here.”
What’s the latest foodstuff, just listen to the music
I recognized a Son and then a cha-cha-cha
“And one cubano, please”
Listen! I know that lead-in, sounds like Boringa!
There’s some kind of norteno wheezing through the perforations in the mini-speakers now
“It’s Boringa!”
Listen now, they’re gonna start to sing-a
(Boringa, Boringa, Boringa ...
We’re just another Tex-Flex Band ...
Absorbing all the words and rhythms...
That we sponge up throughout the land ...
We squeeze “puta mujeres” into our lyrics ...
Because we think you’ll understand ...)
“The big bass guy purpled his hair
With beets when he played in a punk-rock band”
“Take a look over at the bar
They’re doing Torino slams”
“Whoa, babes, soak it to me!”
“I’m complex, I’ve done much more than you
And if you knew me at all, you’d know I’m more interesting, too
Hello, Heinrich Boll would clue you
We’re just the sum of what we do
These are called experiences, it’s a collectivity kind of thing.”
And I e.s.p. the clues
He needs a cigar to match the dots on his tie
Maybe I’ll get him a handsewn shirt, triple-stitching on the cuffs,
A pale cream silk yellow like they did in Portobello
We can say what we want to whoever we please
We’re tongue fu warriors and we can lick them with a tease
“You look great since you started working out”
(“Oh, that’s actually his wife’s money”)
“I really love your shoes”
Take a deep mental breath and get ready to go real renaissance on them
Spell it out for them in those big blank alphabet blocks
It's their fast-talking compressed syllable sound byte world spinning fast, then fast some more
Fast, fast, fast, fast, fast and I mean fast!
Full to the brim with fast-talking, quick-clipping, busy-paced guys and dolls
Who can’t waste their and don’t have time for “this”
(“That pancake foundation when applied with a puttyknife really disguises the crowsfeet”)
“You have such bright little eyes”
(“He uses such bad language when he’s coding, it’s like he forces constant downgrades”)
“Oh, that’s such bad art you do, it’s potentially harmful to the viewer”
I’ll be your chunky monkey to your cherry garcia, babe
You my sweet Wussy-Boy and I’ll be a Wussy-Boy’s girl
Together, we can rule the world
I’m a photogenic girl
And you’re my telegenic guy
Nobody’s smarter than anyone else now
And each person just more important than the next
Let’s esteem our desires above the rest
I’ll run interference for you
And we’ll survive any test
We’ll have insulation with the highest R-factor rating
We’ll have intercoms on the security gates
We’ll have guards in humbers patroling the estate
We’ll have answering machines to screen our calls
We’ll have flat tv screens hung on our walls
We’ll have satellite dish with the sound turned down
We’ll have furnishings in Italian shades of light vogue brun
We’ll have a lap pool and a water feature so far above the ground
We’ll have to drown ourselves in realistic sense-surround sound
We’ll have to wonder should we bother to even educate the young
We’ll have to ponder how the Cassini will eventually go wrong
We’ll have to laugh when some gangsters finally get the bomb
We’ll never rent new movies, each one’s worse than the last
We’ll play our new DVD DEVO, an old song, “Big Mess”
(“Big mess, we’re a big mess, we’re in a big mess, it’s a really big mess...”)
¶ 6/17/2003 08:04:00 PM
