There is a high-pitched hissing sound, a wheezing exhalation, like a deflating gasbag, calling attention to its own dissolution. My head is like that right now, ballooned to some crazy circumference, barely able to fit through a door, then leaking ego left, right, centre, stinking up the air with pent up flatulence. Slowly, out of that miasma of bad odour, dancing globes of burning gas appear, like some swampy will-o-wisps, all orange, yellow, and green, before fading into black and white. And I’m listening in to some venal line, taking down names that all seem to be variations of mine.
It’s a lexicon of sloth and envy, a pas de deux between those minor vices. It’s a stolen dance of escaped lunatics, a profane pas de Dieu of reckless profanities.
But when I see you walk in the room, gliding through the blurry air as if you were parting veils, my breath is caught short once again. And I’m humbled once more by something I can’t explain, something I willingly keep as a mystery. And in your wake the air gets cleared, as my restless slumber ends.
Great comedy albums, in no particular order:
Led Zeppelin, Untitled (IV), I never could keep a straight face while listening to ‘Misty Mountain Hop’.
NWA, Straight Outta Compton.
Anything by The Smiths, case in point, ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’.
spiral scratch
not big .. . { lily allen, alright, still }
an eye for an empty heart .. . { holly golightly, my first holly golightly album }
dear john .. . { the au pairs, equal but different }
