RIP Tony Sheridan

To call him the "one-time Beatles frontman" is stretching the facts a bit...



... but Tony Sheridan certainly does loom large as an early collaborator.



RIP.

An Early Clue

A Little Teaser

The context for this will become clearer in a few months, but until then, enjoy:

Quick Take

Literally.


I guess when you've got a rave-up like this, there's no reason not to power through the whole thing in 90 seconds.

Proving that, at least for a few years, the Ramones had nothing on Ray, Dave, and the boys:

Who Said Anything About Love

From those long-gone days of silly video transitions, huge mirror sunglasses, and a time when Joe Jackson still had (a little bit of) hair:

The Hill

It's Getting Dark, Too Dark to See...

It had always been there. In the distance.

We'd paid no attention to it. For years.

But one night, one cold and snowy night, suddenly the only important thing was to go out in the moonlight and climb the hill.

It wasn't that big. It wasn't that steep. It didn't require training. Or oxygen.

But we knew it required effort. And scarves.

So we fortified ourselves. With booze. With warm clothing. With heavy socks.

And we set out. Eight of us. Piled into a car.

And we walked. In silence. In the moonlight.

Up and up and up.

It was deceptive from the distance. From where we lived. From the warmth of houses, schools, offices.

But once we were on the way, we couldn't turn back.

Yes, there was a path. Twisting. Turning. Not as direct as we'd imagined.

And after a very long time we reached the top.

And we passed around the bottle. Looked down on the town. Saw the lights from the houses and the long darknesses of the fields.

None of us spoke for a long time. And then someone said "I guess this is what it looks like."

Yeah. I guess so.

Not at all what we imagined. But somehow beautiful. In its own way.

Zombie Music

Is it just me or does this sound like it should be performed only when there's a full moon, only in a graveyard, and only by a backing band consisting of brain-hungry zombies?

And When She's Dreaming Sometimes She Sings in French

She's always been so hard to get around...

The stories cascade down, shaken loose from part of my brain.

The girl with the scratches from her cat who wore bandaids all over her face.

The impossibly beautiful girl whose smile lit up the back room of the restaurant at the party.

The girl with hair so long it could wrap around her body three or four times.

The summer I was working in the library and noticed that there were four women who worked there who seemed normally sized in most ways except for their insanely large posteriors.

The pre-internet spread of misinformation.

The post-internet spread of misinformation.

The misunderstandings.

The misappropriations of affection.

The way the rain prods the part of my mind that leads to dreaming.

The memory of certainty that is so much stronger than the certainty of memory.

And it coalesces. With a sudden realization.

That maybe the complexity of the girl you loved so long ago was all in your mind.

Maybe she wasn't that hard to figure out. You were just looking at the wrong thing.

And maybe, just maybe, she was mumbling gibberish, not singing in French.