Valley of the Trolley Dollies

Oh My God!!!

Still exploring this site, but the “In the kingdom of the blind” Quote has me sold. Since I was 9 or 10 I have loved the original French version of the quote:

“au royaume des aveugles, les borgnes sont rois.”

Yes, I was a pretentious queen at nine. Sue me. Actually, there’s a funny story there. Remind me to tell you it some time.

You’re busy. We’re busy. Summer has, if you’ll pardon the expression, been a shit soup: Little nuggets of joy floating in a thick and at times impenetrable broth of shit - of my own and other peoples making.

But fall (look at me! How Americaine am I? That’s your actual French, you know!) is shaping up to be weird.

Weird insofar as, after a summer of shit, I can’t quite remember how to be normal and relaxed and enjoy - I want to run up to “good” grab it, and hug it to my breast desperately. Which makes me sound like Glen Close in that film with the Casserole du Lapin.

I need some Yoga classes, but nobody will touch me til I work out how to make my shoulders touch the floor (apparently I’m looking buff  “But sweetheart,” said one of my trainers - yes we have several; the benefits of being queens with friends in the fitness industry - “You could play Richard the third without prosthetics!”). And apparently my Chakra is all out of whack, but that’s nothing that a few Valium and vanilla smoothies can’t cure.

Have been informed by a rather odd “Psychic Jewess” at work (what is it with me and the Chosen People? I don’t know if she’s really Jewish or just psychically so, but that’s how she introduced herself to me) that I “Simply must be at least a thirty-second Jewish,” which wouldn’t, apparently, have saved me from the camps, but entitles me to a subscription to Heeb magazine, so I suppose that’s something to be positive about…

Anyway Raquel (I reckon her parents named her Rachel, but it wasn’t “Psychically Jewess-y” enough for her) reckons she can foresee futures using a mixture of Kaballa, automatic writing and Strong Psychotropic Drugs, and sees me “Living in Manhattan by the age of sixty.”

SIXTY? Jesus. I don’t wanna be Quentin Crisp; I wanna be Lou Reed.

Am I rambling? Do stop me….

Think: Eight years ago, the world was ending, and here we all are. My city of choice has changed; our lives have changed. The world is different. But we’re still here, and we still have love and respect for each other, and that means a HUGE HUGE amount to me.

Raaaaaaaaamblingg…….

Seriously; things haven’t been great of late, but the old ship has sailed the reefs, and the sight, on the horizon, of friends, Beloved people, places, memories and the knowledge that what we have, and have had – all of us, together and apart - is too huge to be anything more than scraped by the storms of the past 5 months, has kept us going.

Right. Love you.

We outta here. Peace. But Beyonce SHOULD have won that award!!!!!

Dxxx

I like it. Is it cool? No; but since when have the nana’s been about ‘cool’? Is it autotuned beyond words? Um, sadly yes - the danger of a seriously bum note was always one of the thrills of a ‘rama record. Is it wave your bottle of poppers aloud in a tent at a suburban gay pride ‘festival’? Clearly: Which makes it fantastic. Will it be a commercial success? I have no idea - I’m older than 16 and therefore have no right to an opinion on what should or shouldn’t chart in the popular music charts. But what I do know is that the “Drama” album - several years after release - is still on my ipod play charts from time to time. Pop, pure and simple, without pretention; and all the better for it.

Many years ago, I used to post on a forum called “Popb*tch,” a site filled with scurrilous gossip and, quite frankly, celebrity slander.

I once posted a story about a gak-crazed Quincy Jones beating the living shit out of Michael Jackson, whilst screaming “No squeaks, motherfucker!” During the recording of Billie Jean.

Jacko (pre-”Whacko”) had been insisting on inserting his burgeoning repertoir of clicks and squeaks into what Q had decreed would be a minimalist track. After six coke-fuelled hours of recording, the passive aggressive refusal of the then Prince of Pop had slowly but surely swelled to open revolt, and every take was, in Quincy’s eyes, ruined by the “Whoops and Fuckin’ Yelps,” til the situation exploded into physical violence.

After Quincy had finished beating the living daylights out of Mike, the tall, skinny figure stood, walked shakily over to the microphone, and performed the song, straight through, in one take, with nothing but the lyrics.

And it was shit. Quincy had to admit that Jackson’s original vocal take had had some merit after all, and the track went down in history, proving to Jackson that maybe he did, after all, know his onions.

By the time “Bad” came out, Jackson was a co-producer, and taking an increasing share of the recording duties (not, imho, always a good thing) and by “Dangerous,” of course, Quincy was no more, and the vocal stylings were almosto ut of control - beatboxing, clicks, whirrs, sobs, gulps, the works.

The story was entirely fabricated. Not a word of truth in it, but it still showed up in yesterdays Guardian reappraisal of the “Dangerous” album, where it was stated that “Quincy Jones once allegedly shouted, “No squeaks, motherfucker!” during the recording of Thriller.”

I love that use of the word alleged. It says “This is a fact, but one of the participants is still alive an could be a touch litigious.” If it doesn’t, why even use the story? Why not make your own entirely fictitious one up?

Facts, my friends, are whatever people want to believe…