Friday, September 04, 2009
Honest I do
I work in a National Unreachable Wilderness Area and today it was on fire. The two lane highway to the buildings was closed as it often is (the cycle of life in So Cal is: torrential rain, mudslides, fire, all of which close the road). Being medical personnel we got a pass up to our buildings, and spent the day with the smell of smoke in the air and some vague concern that the fire would escape and get near our building. Arson, they say – the last two fires nearby were considered arson too.
I didn't know John Paul Jones was the commander of Zeppelin. At least not until I read No Fear of the Future's piece on the history of Zeppelin pulps. He says the 1930s comics were developed to make Zeppelins sexy, and the Commander of the Navy who led the stories was called JPJ. History of Zeppelin comics here. I suspect he's making it all up, but how would I know? Anyway, Zeppelin pulps sound like something we should have had, even if we didn't.
Just like a Jaguar you're pleasing to behold.
(Yes, I know Marc said he was talking about the car.)
My poster arrived yesterday from Print Mafia (motto: Cut Paste Destroy, in Ransom Note font). It was in a cardboard tube which Mr. Postie threw over the garden gate, where it rolled to the lowest point, i.e. the place where the run off pools when the sprinklers go on. I discovered it there while I was trying to work out why the sprinklers hadn't sprinkled that morning. I still don't know, but I have to assume they didn't fire because it would have ruined my $30 poster. Oddly, it's not numbered. (It is signed.) I shouldn't say that, should I, or it'll never be worth millions. Nice poster. Now I have five Dead Weather posters to frame.
Got my download of The Dead Weather live at Pomona. It's out on the internets if you want it. If you can't find it, give me a shout in comments. There's that amazing bonus of them playing I Just Want To Make Love to You, buried like an ichneumon fly larva inside of No Hassle Night. Baby Ruthless makes it sound like something a Morlock might sing to an Eloi shortly before dinner. Jack White doesn't help, screeching out a guitar line like the damned screaming for relief. Which reminds me. I'm making plans to marry Baby Ruthless. For all of you with your finger hovering over the 1-800-DOB-IN-A-STALKER speed dial, don't panic. I'm not planning to marry Alison Mosshart. I'm sure she's a lovely lady, but I've never met her. I did spend several hours in Baby Ruthless' company recently, though, and she's definitely my type.
The last person I had this crush on was Darth Maul, and I think they're probably similar characters. Murderous, single-minded, pretty. You might assume that Darth Maul was less likely to get beaten up by his boyfriend than the Dead Weather singer, but that's not the case; he ended being cut in two and dumped down a mineshaft by his Jedi squeeze. All in all much like the men BR sings about. Maul had a few physical advantages – horns, for instance, (most probably) physically male – but there are other things to consider in a marriage. I could go shopping with BR, for instance. And I bet she can cook.
I told a friend of mine of my wedding plans and she said she'd beat me to it. She plans to take Baby Ruthless out skeet shooting, horseback riding, handpicking holes in t shirts and portrait painting. She'll make a wedding ring out of spent bullet casings. I said I will take her on a midnight picnic under an oak tree in the waning moonlight where we'll drink red wine and talk about imaginary pasts. We'll take Polaroids of the band and crew and pressure treat them and line the bus with dripping, malleable portraits. We'll go shopping for new boots and sharp metal jewelry. We'll tease the boys until they run away.
Mind you, neither of us have anything in the poetry line on this guy, or girl, who says, "I want Alison Mosshart and Robert Plant to go on a cross-country road trip together in a 1966 VW bug with lots of drugs and Blind Willie Johnson cassettes, stopping in the Utah Salt Flats to spell out poems with rocks and driving 125mph through snowstorms in North Dakota. I want them to stop in Ann Arbor and find a mystic guru who tells them to stop having so much in common. I want the car to run out of gas where Sun Ra once fired his trombonist and I want Robert Plant and Alison Mosshart to make out on that spot. Everything about [The Dead Weather's] set is swathed in lubricate and entrails, and Mosshart hits every downbeat with jolts and lurches." He has a nice photo of her too.
I wonder if my friend will notice if I rip off the excellent idea about spent brass? There's no point telling me to get a life. This is my life.