When I go to the gym it's just me vs. three screens showing ESPN and one screen showing the fat tosser off of Fox News - can't remember his name, the fattest tosseriest one. Comes on after Papa Bear. Him.
Faced with that sort of thing, anybody would despair, but luckily I have my trusty mp3 player, which today served me up some Kills.
I think Kissy Kissy may well be the best song ever written. I was listening to the one from the Kills' 10th Anniversary show, which is amazingly available in its entirety on YouTube.
The whole ninety minutes of the New York show from the MTV feed...nom nom. Kissy Kissy starts at the 14 minute mark.
And for narrative complexity and two-lane-blacktopiness, below is the Keep On Your Mean Side version of the song from the DVD that was available in a limited edition when No Wow came out. (It says here. I don't have a copy myself.) The Kills, straining and soaring against the existential emptiness of the American outback and against its weird vampire cops that suddenly appear a yard behind you in the rear view mirror...wait that means they can't be vampires... weird werewolf cops that appear a yard behind you in the rear view mirror where before there was nothing but tumbleweed and Mexican Beaded Lizards on the road for the three hundred miles since the last gas station, which Jamie probably still insists on calling a petrol station to piss off the natives (but not as much as when he shouts "I'll be ahtside 'avin a fag!" every time Alison goes in to buy a carton of fluorescent orange juice to dilute down another bottle of drivin' vodka). And you drive past prison after prison in the wilderness (and the notices against picking up hitch-hikers) trying to find the little brick cop house where you have to pay your fine and when you get there as you pull out your credit card you notice the cop's teeth are sharpened and it really wasn't your money the speed trap was designed to take out of circulation.
Well, I made all that up from seeing the video below - or 'deduced it from an icon' as Robert Graves used to write when what he meant was drunk writers - he called them poets - made something up from seeing a picture and what they wrote became the reality because what else is real?