Bonus Song of the Week!

In 1841, me corduroy breeches I put on
Me corduroy breeches I put on
To work upon the railway, the railway
I am weary of the railway
Poor Paddy works on the railway

In 1842 from Hartlepoole
I moved to Crewe
And I found myself a job to do
Working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches,
Digging ditches, pulling switches, dodging hitches
I was working on the railway

In 1843 I broke me shovel across me knee
And I went to work with the company
On the Leeds and Selvy Railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches,
Digging ditches, pulling switches, dodging hitches
I was working on the railway

In 1844 I landed on the Liverpool shore
Me belly was empty, me hands were raw
With working on the railway, the railway
I am weary of the railway
Poor Paddy works on the railway

In 1845 when Danny O'Connell he was alive
Danny O'Connell he was alive
And working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches,
Digging ditches, pulling switches, dodging hitches
I was working on the railway

In 1846 I changed my trade from carrying bricks
I changed my trade from carrying bricks
To working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches,
Digging ditches, pulling switches, dodging hitches
I was working on the railway

In 1847 poor Paddy was thinking of going to heaven
Poor Paddy was thinking of going to heaven
To work upon the railway, the Milky Way
I'm weary of the railway
Poor Paddy works on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches,
Digging ditches, pulling switches, dodging hitches
I was working on the railway

This week’s Bonus Song of the Week is the traditional Irish tune "Poor Paddy (Works on the Railway)," performed in the above video by The Dubliners with Luke Kelly. A live version by Kelly and the Dubliners can be found here. The song has been performed by countless Irish music bands, from The Black Velvet Band to The Pogues.

Post Scriptum: Is it just me, or is Shane McGowan looking a bit like Dennis Leary in that last clip?

Post Post Scriptum: If I wasn’t a Dennis Leary fan already, this would make me a fan. It just might make him my favorite comedian ever.

Robertus' Song of the Week!

I got sunburned waiting for the jets to land
Circus people with hairy little hands
Hit it boys, strike up the Army band
I got sunburned waiting for the jets

How do you feel?
How do you feel?
I can't seem to see through solid marble eyes

Fiery pianos wash up on a foggy coast
Squeaky old organs have given up the ghost
Fire them up and kill the piano birds
There's creaky old organs burning on the coast

How do you feel?
How do you feel?
I can't seem to breath with a rusted metal heart
I can't seem to see through solid marble eyes


This week’s Song of the Week is “Piano Fire” by Sparklehorse, featuring PJ Harvey. I would have liked to post something from PJ Harvey's upcoming album, but the sound quality on the live Youtube clips leaves something to be desired. Like quality. So, until I get a better listen to the new materials, enjoy!

Post Scriptum: Scott writes in to remind me that I didn't do a Song of the Week last week. Look for a BONUS SONG OF THE WEEK tomorrow!

Robertus' Song of the Week

Slow it down some
No split clown bum
Your gold hit sound dumb
Hold it now!!! Crown 'Em
Where you found them at?
Got 'em 'round town
Could've drowned in it
Woulda floated bloated
Voted sugar coated
Loaded hip shooter
Draw for the poor
Free coffee at the banks
Hit through the straw
None more for me, thanks
That blanks the raw
That dank sure stank lit
Sank passed the pit for more hardcore prank spit
Crank it on blast
Roll past Front Street
Blew the whole spot
Like some old ass with skunk meat
These kids is too fast
Juiced off of junk treat
Who could get looser off a crunk or a funk beat?

Something has started today
Where did it go, while you wanted to be?
Well you know November has come when
When it's gone away

Something has started today
Where did it go, while you wanted to be?
Well you know November has come when
When it's gone away

(baha) Can you dig it like a spigot
My guess is yes you can like, can I kick it?
wicked liquor shot
If you happy and you know it
As you clap your hands to the thick snot of a poet flow it
Broke a pen and I'm in
cope hymen
Doper rhymin more worth it than
The Hope diamond
Acquired off the black market
Or wire tappin
Couldn't target a jar of spit
The rapid fire spark lit
zzzzt!
A rapper bug zapper
And it don't matter after if they's a thug or dapper.
Plug yer trap or it's maximum exposure
The beast got family members asking 'em for closure
Aw, send 'em a gun an tell em clean it
Then go get the nun who said her son didn't mean it
She wore a filled-in thong
A billabong
And said, nah, fo'realla
The Villain on a Gorilla jawn?

Something has started today
Where did it go, while you wanted to be?
Well you know November has come when
When it's gone away

Something has started today
Where did it go, while you wanted to be?
Well you know November has come when
When it's gone away


This week's Song of the Week is "November Has Come" by The Gorillaz, with a guest appearance by MF Doom (of Madvillain and, more recently, Danger Doom). For my money, this live performance is better, but then again, I'm not paying any money for this.

Enjoy!

Post Scriptum: Unfortunately, Big Brother isn't allowing me onto the Stones Throw web site ("MP3 and Audio Download Service"), so I can't verify the Safe For Workitude of it (so BEWARE!). That WebSense is not letting me on the WebSense website speaks volumes.

Robertus' Song of the Week

Panic on the streets of London
Panic on the streets of Birmingham
I wonder to myself
Could life ever be sane again ?
The Leeds side-streets that you slip down
I wonder to myself
Hopes may rise on the Grasmere
But Honey Pie, you're not safe here
So you run down
To the safety of the town
But there's Panic on the streets of Carlisle
Dublin, Dundee, Humberside
I wonder to myself

Burn down the disco
Hang the blessed DJ
Because the music that they constantly play
it says nothing to me about my life
Hang the blessed DJ
Because the music they constantly play


On the Leeds side-streets that you slip down
Provincial towns you jog 'round
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ
Hang the DJ


This week’s SotW is “Panic” by The Smiths. A classic!

Whilst out for lunch this afternoon, I heard a fascinating a cappella swing rendition by The Puppini Sisters on the radio (God bless the internet). Although I'm not a fan of swing music, I fear this rendition will be firmly lodged in my cranium until this time next week (and I'd just gotten "Australia" out of my dome).

Robertus' Song of the Week

Born to multiply, born to gaze in to night skies,
All you want’s one more Saturday.
Well look here, until then
They’re gonna buy your life's time
So keep your wick in the air and your feet in the fetters til the day.
We come in doing cartwheels
We all crawl out by ourselves
And your shape on the dance floor
Will have me thinking such filth I'll gauge my eyes.

You’ll be damned to be one of us, girl
Faced with a dodo’s conundrum
I felt like I could just fly
But nothing happened every time I tried.

Oh duotone on the wall
The selfless fool who hoped he’d save us all
he never dreamt of such sterile hands,
You keep them folded in your lap,
or raise them up to beg for scraps,
You know, he's holding you down,
With the tips of his fingers, just the same
You'll be pulled from the ocean
But just a minute too late,
Or changed by a potion,
and find a handsome young mate,
For you to love.

You'll be damned to pining through the windowpanes,
You know you'd trade your life for any ordinary Joe's,
we'll do it now or grow old,
cause your nightmares only need a year or two to unfold.

Been alone since you were twenty-one,
You haven't laughed since January,
You try and make like this is so much fun,
But we know it to be quite contrary.

Dare to be one of us, girl,
Facing the android’s conundrum,
You see, I felt like I should just cry,
But nothing happens every time I take one on the chin,
Yeah Himmler in your coat,
You don't know how long I've been
Watching the lantern dim,
Starved of oxygen,
So give me your hand
And let's jump out the window



This week's Song of the Week is "Australia" by The Shins. Enjoy!

Post Scriptum: Many thanks to Jacob for the corrections and pointing me towards the lyric booklet. I was working, as it were, at work without a net. Sometimes the result is graceful brilliance. Sometimes, street pizza.

Robertus' Song of the Week

These walls are paper thin
And everyone hears every little sound
Everyone's a voyeurist, they're watching me
Watch them, watch me right now
They're shakin hands, they're shakin in their shoes
Oh Lord, don't shake me down
Everyone wants two of them
And half of everyone else who's around
It's been agreed, the whole world stinks
So no one's taking showers anymore

Laugh hard it's a long ways to the bank
I can't be blamed for nothin' anymore
It's been a long time since you've been around
Laugh hard it's long ways to the bank

Tow the line to tax the time, you know
That you don't owe
I can't be a fool for everyone that I don't know

These walls are paper thin
And everyone hears every little sound
Everyone's a voyeurist, they're watching me
Watch them, watch me right now
They're shakin hands, they're shakin in their shoes
Oh Lord, don't shake me down
Everyone wants two of them
And half of everyone else who's around
It's been agreed, the whole world stinks
So no one's taking showers anymore
Laugh hard it's a long ways to the bank

Tow the line to tax the time, you know
That you don't owe
I can't be a fool for everyone that I don't know


This week’s Song of the Week is “Paper Thin Walls” by Modest Mouse, which originally caught my ear for the line “Laugh hard, it’s a long way to the bank,” which I first heard in They Might Be Giants “Rhythm Section Want Ad”. At first, I didn’t much care for the song (“hey, they’re ripping off TMBG”), but the song grew on me after repeated listenings on the bPod.

Falling in Love Again

I never wanted to
what am I to do
I can't help it

A touch tipsy from a bowl of cereal and a glass of Robert Mondavi red wine my fiancee's father (future father in law, mine) gave me for Christmas, I'm sitting in the yellow/bumblebee room on my new desktop computer, wondering if the fingers still work after all this time. They appear to

But the mind has gone to rot, more or less, a noted after effect of too much time spent in front of a computer monitor, eating bowls of cereal and drinking wine (wine with a punch, it seems, this evening, enough to make the breathing easy, enough to make my toes go numb). My (our) guinea pig is going ballistic downstairs because I've not let him out to feast on the throw rug under the glass coffee table, between my erstwhile perch and hers, and I realize I should ought to assuage the beast, as Comcast crashes again and again, forever into the night.

Sunday Night, Muggy

It's been (again) too long since I've posted, and just posting now at twenty past eleven on a Sunday night to say all's quiet, all is well.

More later, mes amis, more later.

Return, Goings On

Fresh, returned from a vacation spent mostly on the burgundy couch and battering Harvest Golden tiles off a bathroom wall, ready to speak to the joys of doing nothing for an extended period, of morning coffee in a Philadelphia café, how my girlfriend related how relaxed I looked, how relaxing, how relaxing.

Instead came to unbusy office on a muggy Tuesday morning and read that American soldiers intentionally laid waste to civilians in Iraq, the military covered it up, a Louisiana democrat was caught with $90,000 in his freezer during a bribery investigation, there’s a Left Behind video game in the works. This is where we’ve heading, the nadir, here but for the grace of God.

Philadelphia was beautiful.

Finnish Ditty

Derrier planted on the burgundy couch, twenty past midnight on a rainy Thursday, slightly rancid from tonight's men's league game, watching the last period of the Anaheim Mighty Ducks/Colorado Avalanche game with the sound turned down, not for the benefit of sleeping neighbors (I don't even think they're home), but so I can listen, incessantly, to Loituma, a Finnish vocal quartet that, thanks to a posting on a message board I frequent, has bored into my skull. Shared pain is lessened, shared joy increased.

If you prefer, there's an equally catchy dance remix and, should you like, a video.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Post Scriptum. I very nearly forgot to congradulate Ed and Linda on their excellent news. Here's to the three of you.

Looking Up

Spent the early afternoon at work, but not working, looking up the files I'd sent myself to post here in some form or another, and stumbled over

I'm sorry but I don't want to be an Emperor—that's not my business—I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone if possible: Jew, gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another, human beings are like that. We all want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery. We don't want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone, and the earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful. But we have lost the way. Greed has poisoned men's souls—has barricaded the world with hate; has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed but we have shut ourselves in: Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little: More than machinery we need humanity; more than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost. The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men, cries out for universal brotherhood for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people. To those who can hear me I say, 'Do not despair.' The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress: The hate of men will pass and dictators die and the power they took from the people will return to the people, and so long as men die liberty will never perish. Soldiers—don't give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you and enslave you—who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel, who drill you, diet you, treat you as cattle, as cannon fodder. Don't give yourselves to these unnatural men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts. You are not machines. You are not cattle. You are men. You have the love of humanity in your hearts. You don't hate—only the unloved hate. Only the unloved and the unnatural. Soldiers—don't fight for slavery, fight for liberty. In the 17th chapter of St. Luke it is written "the kingdom of God is within man"—not one man, nor a group of men—but in all men—in you, the people.
You the people have the power, the power to create machines, the power to create happiness. You the people have the power to make life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure. Then in the name of democracy let's use that power—let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give you the future and old age and security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power, but they lie. They do not fulfill their promise: they never will. Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people. Now let us fight to fulfill that promise. Let us fight to free the world, to do away with national barriers, do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men's happiness. Soldiers—in the name of democracy, let us all unite! Look up! Look up! The clouds are lifting—the sun is breaking through. We are coming out of the darkness into the light. We are coming into a new world. A kind new world where men will rise above their hate and brutality. The soul of man has been given wings—and at last he is beginning to fly. He is flying into the rainbow—into the light of hope—into the future, that glorious future that belongs to you, to me and to all of us. Look up. Look up.

Sadly, not a Robertus original, but from a movie written some thirty-seven years before I was born, a film that seems, somehow, prescient.
A small thought about a long block quote while sitting on the burgundy couch, quiet spring evening, the breeze fluttering through the curtains, a motorcycle roaring past in the night.

Hey Little Bird

And the Barnes and Noble Cafe, half a state away, next to some guy in a pink tie chattering on a cellular phone, and so it goes. I have half an hour to get to there, across an intersection to Red Brick Station, to meet (again, for the first time) Dawn and Meredyth.

White Marsh is no Fells Point, but she is not without her characters, the child stoops slowly to pick up a rolling bottlecap, coordinating joints he's just learning how to bend, the woman munching on a meatball sub from the Italian place up the street, the street draped in neon and the false halogen moonlight, Ladysmith Black Mambazo singing the South African National Anthem over the soundsystem, the reverend sipping mocachino waiting for the nearly newlyweds
Rumors have started that you are in love again
Rumors that are completely unsubstantiatedThe platinum countergirl is no Polly Harvey, but she'll do in a pinch.

After all, I've half an hour to get from here to there, to meet Dawn and Mere, sadly emptyhanded after all these months, that month it's been since Mad City, on about noon.

No Polly Harvey there to speak of, only Mark (or maybe Mike), who's owned the place since I lived there, very nearly a decade ago, and he's as bald as he was then, though I doubt it is intentional now (the scalp exceeds the shave), bu my hair's receeded since then, so I've no room to talk.

And no time to talk, to speak of, spent the last fifteen digging through coat pockets for a Day-Quil, a temporary fix for a sinus infection. It looks like I've been crying all day, though I've not shed a tear in a year.

Coffee Shop Ramble

Sitting in the Mad City Cafe, the old Columbia stamping ground, the first former Riverside, beneath Salvador Dali exclaiming the lone difference between he and a madman (he is not mad) and the neon Open sign. Two high school girs practice French, sounding American (like I did when I was their age, like I would, could I speak French), a man plugs in the ubiquitous laptop (is any coffee shop scene complete sans laptop? Perhaps that's the last bastion of a forgotten age, the wireless cafe), a cell phone rings. The door swings open, a blast of fresh and bitter January, a man pours unsteeped, steaming tea into a trash can, he did say room for cream. I've read Baltimore's Alternative Weekly (City Paper) cover to cover, waiting for my phone to ring.

Baking Flags

Sat back in the black office chair this afternoon, having just read that Hilary Clinton signed a bill to ban flag burning, marveling at how the mighty fall.

Now back on the home front, straight up drinking a glass of milk, relistening to Danger Doom and the claxon oven timer alarm. Pause a moment to throw another batch on the baking stone, take a fresh thirteen minutes to sit back and reread that first sentence, to wonder why people are as worked up as they are, to ruminate that a flag is a flag is a flag.

I've heard it said that the American flag is a symbol of Freedom. The oft forgotten truth is that Freedom is not a thing of cloth and thread, nevermind nylon or automobile magnets, but a grand abstract that couldn't be burned with the brightest match.

As eloquently put by Justice William Brennan in his ruling on flag burning, "We do not consecrate the flag by punishing its desecration, for in doing so we dilute the freedom that this cherished emblem represents."

Beginning to Look a Little Like Christmas

Sitting on the just dusted hardwood floor, Danger Doom on the b-Pod (ask him could he bark on the beat and spark calli/villain not the cat you want to meet in a dark alley), gazing up at the pale pink lights strung around the Charlie Brown tree (only now noticing that half the string is dead, but who besides pets doesn't neglect the bottom of the fake fir, far from the angels and the stars). Images flash silently across the television set, I should just turn it off but the distraction is a crutch, better used for balance than illumination. And just like that, I pack my hockey bag and head out to my men's league game, half past nine on a biting Tuesday night.

Soon, Josephine

And so follows stony silence, and Robertus sits in the blue barka lounger, wired for the first time in years (or thereabouts) watching Jimmy Carter on the Daily Show, wondering what could have been.

There will be more, mes amis, I promise.

Tonight, Josephine

Sitting on the burgundy couch in the early autumn air, a month and change since last I posted, watching the New York Football Giants score a touchdown to pull within two touchdowns of San Diego, twenty past ten on a random Sunday night.

Since then we've witnessed the governments (federal and otherwise) flounder in the face of a disaster that they'd seen coming (billions to rebuild, untold hundreds dead), the continuance of a far away war that seems endless from this vantage point, late September two thousand and five, the sudden start of an unwarranted war at home

So strange, victory.
Twelve hundred spires,
the only sound, Moscow burning

Mon amie, I grew tired of being angry, so tired of being angry, and so instead grew silent, sitting on the burgundy couch, empty as the Tuileries, without so much as a peep from the Sublime Idealist, much to my detriment, much to my dismay.

In the last extremity
to advance or not to advance
I hear you laughing

Until now, ten past ten on September twenty-fifth, when it occurs to me that there will be time enough for stunned and stony silence, and not enough to shout.

Iucundi Acti Labores

Tonight I'm sitting in the bumblebee office, having enjoyed a frosty pint, meat loaf, and some Colcannon, listening to Simon & Garfunkel

The last train is nearly due
the Underground is closing soon
and in the dark, deserted station
restless in anticipation
a man waits in the shadows

feeling the last kinks from moving Jacob and Kate (and Charlotte Siobhan) on a stifling Sunday afternoon seep out of my body, replaced by the hazy glaze of drunkedness and the pleasantly springlike air

His restless eyes leap and scratch
at all that they can touch or catch
hidden deep within his pocket
safe within its silent socket
he holds a colored crayon

It was a simple enough move, as moves go, no trouble filling the truck or scratching the mattresses past the exposed brick stairwell, piloting the freight elevator two flights up, emptying a Bank Street rowhome into a Charles Village apartment, half a dozen men and two women, sweating to high Heaven in the back of a 10-foot U-Haul truck

Now from the tunnel's stony womb,
The carriage rides to meet the groom,
And opens wide the welcome doors,
But he hesitates, then withdraws
Deeper in the shadows

and at the end of the day, exhausted and sore, sat down on the scattered furniture eating sandwiches, drinking root beer, planning a route out of the city I'm not nearly familiar with. Citing stadium traffic, Kate's sister and I leave, sharing a ride on the rickety elevator and a brief walk down the sweltering Charm City sidewalk.

Now from his pocket quick he flashes,
The crayon on the wall he slashes,
Deep upon the advertising,
A single-worded poem comprising
Four letters

Fortyfive minutes later, sitting down in the bumblebee office beside the frosted air conditioning vent, drinking a glass of water and listening to Simon & Garfunkel, I found myself thinking of Cicero, whom I'd just read in a relic of my bookselling days, Vulgo enim dicitur: iucundi acti labores: It is commonly said: hard tasks are pleasant, when they are finished.

And his heart is laughing, screaming, pounding,
The poem across the tracks resounding,
Shadowed by the exit light

Fortyeight hours later, find myself sitting back in the bumblebee office, the metamorphosis from sore to tight complete, happy to be done with moving for at least another year, to feel the pleasantly springlike breeze through the cracked window

His legs take their ascending flight
To seek the breast of darkness and be suckled by the night

That's Good Enough for Me

It amazes me what one can make by combining a pair of eggs with sugar and flower, baking soda and salt, chocolate chips or raisins. Combine with Three hundred and fifty degree heat for fifteen minutes, just like that, a batch of cookies, or, in different proportions, brownies, chocolate cake.

More amazing still the messes you notice when sitting in a silent room, waiting for the cookies to bake -- the cobweb in the top corner above the refrigerator, the onion leaf that fell behind the trash can, a coupon clipped and long forgotten, a hidden drink coaster thought lost, a fresh splash of milk on the countertop from the last batch.

From the last batch I discovered that I only burned myself twice is both a boast and an admission. The dishtowel didn't quite cover the handle of the baking stone, and so palm met metal, and, flinching back, the inner wall of the oven, a little sting, a little swear, a little cold water and all is well. After all, I could have burned the house down.

Half past ten now, and back on the burgandy couch watching the Karate Kid (Elizabeth Shue, the people you notice some times), belly full of cookies and milk, and life is good.
-R.

Nocturne

Sitting in the wheeled black office chair in the bumblebee office, ten past ten, listening to Sicut cervus on the Music Match Jukebox, avoiding reading Sicut Cervus too closely, lest I bring my blood to boil at this hour of the night, nearly bedtime, ordinary Tuesday, early August, the air hanging like cotton, silent but for the spinning ceiling fan and sicut cervus desiderat ad fontes aquarum, ita anima mea desiderat ad te, deus, as the deer desireth the springs, so my soul desires you, O Lord.